Solitary
by heisey
Summary: Fisk's convictions are reversed on appeal, and he's released on bail awaiting his retrial. Shortly afterward, Matt disappears in the middle of a big trial. Has he bailed on Foggy and Karen again? Or is there another explanation for his disappearance? This is the story of the search for Matt and what happens to him while he's gone and after. About two years post-Daredevil season 3.
1. Chapter 1 - Alone

_Chapter 1_ _– Alone_

_Fisk_

Wilson Fisk was a free man again, more or less. The New York Court of Appeals had reversed his convictions and ordered a new trial. District Attorney Blake Tower immediately announced he would re-try Fisk on all charges, but Fisk's legal team, led by Ben Donovan, convinced the court to release him on bail while awaiting his new trial. Only yesterday, he returned to the apartment above his wife Vanessa's art gallery where she had been living during his imprisonment. He would be confined to the building, wearing an ankle monitor, but there would be no microphones or cameras tracking his conversations and activities. During the seventeen months of his imprisonment, much of it in solitary confinement, he had obsessed over his nemesis, the vigilante Hell's Kitchen knew as Daredevil, and he knew as the blind lawyer Matthew Murdock. Finally, he had come up with a plan that not only neutralized the threat of Daredevil, once and for all, but also gave Murdock a taste of what he had suffered during his own incarceration.

_Ten Days Later_

_Foggy_

Karen and Foggy sat side by side at counsel table, exchanging worried glances. "Where is he?" Karen hissed.

Foggy shrugged. "You tried his cell?" he asked. Karen nodded. "And his landline?" Karen nodded again.

"I called Sister Maggie, too," she said. "She hasn't heard from him."

"He wasn't with you last night?" Foggy asked.

"No," Karen replied. "After the last two days, I needed some 'me time' – to recharge, you know?"

"Yeah, I get it," Foggy replied. He felt the same way. Their client's two days of testimony about the sexual harassment and assaults she had endured from her predator-boss at Atreus Plastics, Inc. had been hard to listen to.

"God damn it," Karen whispered. "He's doing it again, isn't he?"

Foggy knew what she meant. If Matt was bailing on them in the middle of an important trial, it wouldn't be for the first time. "Let's not jump to conclusions," he cautioned. "There may be a reasonable explanation."

"With Matt?" Karen scoffed.

Their conversation was cut short when Judge Vogel emerged from his chambers. He didn't take the bench. Instead, he stood in the doorway leading to the corridor behind the courtroom. "Counsel," he said, beckoning to the attorneys.

When Foggy and Atreus's attorney, Glenn Thompson, were standing in front of him, the judge asked, "My clerk tells me Mr. Murdock hasn't arrived. Where is he?"

Foggy swallowed hard, then made a decision. He wasn't going to lie to the court. "He appears to be missing, Your Honor."

The judge raised an eyebrow. "Missing?"

"He didn't meet us as planned at our office this morning, and he isn't answering either of his phones."

The judge frowned. "This is concerning. The man's blind, after all. I'll have my bailiff call the police to do a welfare check."

That was the last thing Foggy wanted. If the police went to Matt's apartment, they might see things they shouldn't. "Is that really necessary, Your Honor? I'm sure he'll be with us shortly."

The judge sighed. "All right. We'll give him until the morning recess to join us. Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Nelson? I don't want to keep the jury waiting."

Foggy gulped. "Yes, Your Honor." That wasn't entirely true. Matt was scheduled to do the direct of their next witness. But Foggy knew the case as well as Matt, probably better, and knew what they needed from the witness. He would be able to wing it.

"All right," the judge said. He turned to the bailiff. "Bring in the jury," he ordered.

Foggy resumed his place at counsel table, now sitting next to their client, Linda Cooper, who had returned from the rest room while the attorneys were conferring with the judge.

The mid-morning recess arrived, but Matt didn't. After the jury left the courtroom, Judge Vogel again directed the attorneys to approach the bench.

"Well?" he asked, looking at Foggy.

Karen stood up and answered from her place at counsel table. "I can check his apartment, Your Honor."

The judge looked at the attorneys. Both nodded their agreement.

"Very well, Ms. Page," the judge said. "But if Mr. Murdock is not there, I'm notifying the police."

"Understood," Foggy replied.

_Karen_

Karen grabbed her handbag and hurried out of the courthouse. She hailed a cab to take her to Matt's place. Once there, she used her keys to enter the building and his apartment. "Matt!" she called out as she stepped inside. There was no answer. She made her way down the entry hall and surveyed the apartment. No Matt. Nothing was out of place. His closed laptop, phone, and wallet were on the desk. Nothing seemed to be missing from his wallet. She checked the phone. No calls or messages since yesterday, except hers and Foggy's this morning. The ones from yesterday were either from them or work-related. She didn't find the burner phone he took with him when he went out as Daredevil. She tried calling it, just in case, but she didn't hear it buzzing, and there was no answer.

To her right, the closet stood open. The foot locker inside it was also open. She checked it. No Daredevil suit. The tray that held Battlin' Jack's boxing robe was on the floor next to the foot locker. She placed the tray back in the foot locker and closed the lid. After shutting the closet doors behind her, she checked the bathroom and bedroom. The bed was made, and the towels in the bathroom were dry. Apparently Matt never got home last night.

She climbed the stairs to the roof. No sign of him there either. Trying to contain her rising anxiety, she went back downstairs and sank onto the couch. She took a few minutes to consider her next step, then pulled out her phone to call Brett Mahoney.

"Detective Mahoney," he answered.

"Hey, Brett, it's Karen Page."

"Hey. What's up?"

"Matt's missing," she said.

"Missing?" he asked. "Since when?"

"Since last night, I think," she replied. "I'm at his apartment now. It looks like he went out last night, as you-know-who, and never came back. He didn't show up at the office or in court this morning."

"Damn," Brett swore. "You sure this isn't just him doing another disappearing act?"

Karen sighed. "It could be," she admitted, "but it doesn't feel like it. Not this time."

"OK," Brett said, "I'll get on it. You know we're not gonna be able to keep this quiet, not if we want to find him."

"You don't have to. The judge and his staff and opposing counsel already know he's missing. And everyone who was in the courtroom this morning knows he wasn't there."

"Good. Can you stay at the apartment? I'll round up a couple of uniforms and get there as soon as I can. We'll say we're doing a 'welfare check'."

"OK. See you soon." She ended the call, then called Foggy. "He's not here," she told him."Nothing out of place. No signs of a struggle or break-in. Nothing incriminating."

Foggy sighed heavily. "OK. I'll tell the judge. He's gonna want to call the cops, you know."

"I already did. Brett Mahoney is on the way."

"Good. You coming back?"

"Yes, after Brett's done here."

_Matt_

Matt woke up in a dark place. That was nothing new. For him, everywhere was dark. But this was . . . different. It was quiet, too quiet. Panic rose in his gut. He snapped his fingers and breathed a sigh of relief. He could hear the snap, but it sounded . . . wrong, muffled somehow. What the fuck? He tested his other senses. He could feel a slight, very slight movement of the air around him. The temperature was neutral: not too hot, not too cold. He found himself thinking, ridiculously, of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears." He ran his hand across the surface on which he was lying: carpet. There was a faint odor, tinged with chemicals. Probably outgassing from the carpet. There was something between his skin and the carpet, something smooth. He ran his hands over his body and discovered he was wearing a one-piece garment, probably a jumpsuit, made of some slick material, with buttons up the front. His crucifix, a gift from Sister Maggie, was gone. His feet were bare.

He got to his feet, fighting off dizziness and nausea. Holding his right arm in front of him, across his body, and snapping his fingers, he explored his surroundings. There wasn't much to find. It was a room, about ten paces by twelve paces, with a carpeted floor. He stubbed his toe on a pallet or thin mattress on the floor in one corner. Trailing his hand along the wall, he found a combination sink and toilet in the opposite corner. When he turned on the faucet, water flowed. He cupped his hands and drank, wiping his hands on his jumpsuit afterward. Then he examined the walls more closely. They seemed to be covered in some kind of fabric. He guessed it was sound-dampening material of some kind. He did a second circuit of the room, looking for an exit. There wasn't one, as far as he could tell, but it might be hidden behind the soundproofing. There was a small flap in one wall, about two feet by ten inches. He tried to open it, but it didn't budge. If there was a way in or out, he reasoned, it might be in the ceiling. The slight movement of air he'd felt had to come from somewhere, like a vent in the ceiling. But if there was an opening, he couldn't sense it. Even if he could, it was out of reach; the ceiling was too high.

He was sure there must be cameras and microphones somewhere, but he couldn't detect them. The soundproofing was too effective. But no one would build a room like this and not want to watch what happened inside it. His skin crawled at the thought of being observed like some kind of lab rat.

Still feeling slightly groggy, he made his way to the pallet in the corner and sat down on it. He must have been drugged before he was brought here. Meditation would help clear his mind. Maybe then he could come up with a plan.

His meditation was interrupted by the sound of a click. Must be the flap in the wall opening. Then the sound of something sliding over a surface, followed by the click of the flap closing. He crossed the room to check it out. A tray of food was sitting on a shelf that apparently had extended when the flap was opened. He picked up the tray and sniffed its contents. It was food, but it didn't smell like much of anything. At least it didn't smell rotten. It might be poisoned, he cautioned himself. But, he reasoned, if they (whoever "they" were) wanted to kill him, they wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of building this room and bringing him here. And he was sure the room was recently built; the new-carpet odor told him that. The food could be drugged, he supposed, but his sense of smell didn't detect any of the obvious possibilities. He decided to risk it. Who knew how long he was going to be here? He needed to keep up his strength. The food was bland, almost tasteless, but he ate it all.

As he ate, he pondered the twin questions of who had brought him here and why. The answer to the first question was simple: Wilson Fisk. Matt, and Daredevil, had many enemies, but Fisk had the strongest motive. And it was less than two weeks since his release on bail. It had to be Fisk. The "why" was less clear. If Fisk wasn't going to kill him right away, which seemed to be the case, well, Fisk was a master manipulator. So he probably wanted to manipulate him. But to what end? Matt frowned. He didn't know. Maybe the room itself was a clue. It seemed to be designed to limit sensory input. If Fisk wanted to fuck with his mind, messing with his remaining senses was one way to do it. Except he didn't think Fisk knew about his senses. Maybe it was just a lucky guess. He shrugged. He supposed he'd learn Fisk's intentions soon enough. In the meantime, meditation and exercise would help him to be ready to deal with whatever Fisk had planned for him.

When his meal, such as it was, was finished, Matt set the tray on the shelf. He moved to the center of the room and did a series of push-ups. He wondered if Fisk was watching, counting the number of repetitions along with him. He decided to test his theory. He stood up and yelled at the ceiling, "I know you're there, Fisk. What's your game?" There was no response.

_Fisk_

In a nearby room, Fisk watched Murdock doing push-ups on several video screens. No surprise there. Fisk expected Murdock would try to keep himself in fighting shape. He hadn't expected to see Murdock meditating. He didn't know the lawyer practiced meditation. Fisk didn't meditate himself, but he had learned something about its benefits, during his time in Asia. That wouldn't help Murdock here, he told himself confidently. Chuckling at Murdock's verbal challenge, he turned and strode out of the room.

_Karen _

It was after 7:30 by the time Karen and Foggy got back to the office. Foggy flopped wearily on the reception room sofa. Karen sat next to him, equally drained. It had been a long day in court, even though the judge had cut them some slack and adjourned for the day a half hour early. No doubt he had seen the drawn and anxious expressions on both their faces. After that, they still had to go to the 15th Precinct to give their statements to Brett Mahoney. Then Karen insisted they had to search the area where Brett said Daredevil was last seen, in spite of Brett's assurances that his officers had done a thorough search. Now they had to prepare for the next day's witnesses. But first they needed to talk.

"He's doing it again, isn't he?" Foggy asked bitterly. "Going out on his own, doing God-knows-what, shutting us out."

"I'm not so sure," Karen said.

"Why not?" Foggy countered. "He's done it before. Remember the Castle trial?"

"I know," Karen admitted, "but now that I've had time to think about it, this feels different."

"How so?"

"The Castle trial and what happened later, after Midland Circle, those were at times when Matt was in a bad place, lying to us and pushing us away. That's not the case now."

"That we know of," Foggy replied pointedly.

"Maybe. But I think we'd know – _I'd_ know – if he was keeping something from us. I may not have Matt's abilities, but I can usually tell when he's hiding something. He gives off that shifty vibe. You know what I mean."

"I do," Foggy agreed. "But that's who he is, what he does. He hasn't changed, not really. You don't know him like I do."

"Maybe not, but you don't know him like _I_ do, either. I'm the one who's there in the middle of the night, when he comes back from being Daredevil. Believe it or not, he talks to me. I'm telling you, there's nothing going on that would cause him to up and disappear like this. I'd know if there was."

"OK," Foggy replied, "let's say you're right. What are the alternatives?"

"Well, Brett checked the hospitals and the morgues, and he hasn't turned up at any of them."

"So far," Foggy pointed out.

"Right," Karen agreed, suppressing a pang of fear. "But if he didn't take off like he did before, maybe he didn't disappear voluntarily."

"You mean, like a kidnapping?" Foggy asked.

Karen nodded.

"But there hasn't been a ransom demand."

"Maybe it's too soon for that," Karen said. "Or it's not about money. Maybe someone took him for some other reason."

"Like what?"

"No idea." Karen fell silent, considering the possibilities. After a minute or two, she frowned and said, "Oh, shit."

"What is it?"

"Do I need to remind you who just got out on bail?"

"Wilson Fisk. Damn, I should've thought of that," Foggy said. "But what about Matt's deal with Fisk? Matt's kept up his end, why wouldn't Fisk do the same?"

"This is Fisk we're talking about," Karen said. "Do you really think we can trust him?"

"No."

"I only hope Matt isn't learning that the hard way," Karen observed grimly. She blinked back tears as she stared into Matt's empty office, as if she could will him to appear.

_Matt_

Meditation, food, and exercise helped. His mind clearer now, Matt tried to reconstruct what he was doing before he ended up here. He went out as Daredevil last night, or the last night he remembered. He was planning on making it a short night, then going back to his apartment to prepare . . . oh, shit. The _Cooper _trial. Karen and Foggy must be _pissed._ They must be thinking he bailed on them _again_ in the middle of an important trial. He couldn't blame them if they did. He'd done it before. If he didn't make it out of here, they might never know what really happened. They'll never forgive him. He's fucked, in more ways than one.

_Author's note:_ If you've read my previous story, "A Deal with the Devil," you may be thinking this story is inconsistent with it. You're right. It is. These two stories are not intended to be part of the same narrative. They're separate stories about different things that might happen in the post-season 3 world.


	2. Chapter 2 - Descent

_Chapter 2 – Descent_

_Foggy _

When Foggy checked his phone the next morning, there were multiple alerts with the news that Matt had gone missing, not to mention emails and texts from almost everyone he knew. The article on the _Bulletin's_ web site called Matt "Hell's Kitchen's lawyer" and reminded readers that he had twice helped send Wilson Fisk to prison. It also described how he had lost his sight, calling his actions "heroic." A separate story mentioned Fisk's recent release on bail and speculated about his upcoming retrial. Neither story connected Fisk's release with Matt's disappearance.

Marci walked out of their bedroom and gave him a hug. "Any news?" she asked.

"No," he said.

She kissed him. "What d'you think happened?"

Foggy sighed heavily and sank down onto the couch. "Honestly, I don't know. Karen thinks Fisk has him . . . ."

"But – ?" Marci prompted, taking a seat next to him.

"She could be right. I don't want to think that Matt bailed on us, again."

"Well, he _has_ done it before," Marci observed.

"I know," Foggy admitted. "And this is Matt we're talking about. He could definitely do a disappearing act if he got some crazy idea that he had to, you know, to protect Karen and me. You, too."

"Yeah, I can see him doing that. Not for me, maybe, but . . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"But I don't know of anything that would give him an idea like that."

"Well, he does have a habit of keeping secrets."

"True." Foggy fell silent, considering the possibilities. Then he said, "I don't think I can do this again."

Marci put her arms around him and pulled him toward her. "Oh, Foggy Bear. . . ." She rubbed the back of his neck, loosening the tension he hadn't even known was there. "This isn't the same. He'll turn up soon."

Foggy raised his head. "You can't know that."

"No, I don't," she admitted.

"What if it's worse? What if he doesn't come back this time?"

"We don't know that, either. But if the worst happens, we'll get through it. You and me. I promise."

Foggy kissed her. "What would I do without you, babe?"

"Let's not go there," she replied briskly. After a moment, she asked, "What are you going to do about the trial? Ask for a mistrial?"

"No. I don't want to lose this jury. I think they're with us. But Atreus probably wants a do-over."

"Do you think Atreus has something to do with Matt being missing?" Marci asked. "If they think they're losing, that might be a way to get a mistrial."

"I don't know," Foggy replied, frowning. "Maybe. You know Glenn Thompson, he's a pretty stand-up guy. But his client's as sleazy as they come." He glanced at his phone and saw the time. "Speaking of which, I'm gonna be late if I don't leave right now." He put on his jacket, picked up his briefcase, and kissed Marci good-bye, then headed out the door.

As soon as Foggy walked into the courtroom, the clerk told him and Thompson that the judge wanted to see them in his chambers. The court reporter joined them.

When the two lawyers were seated across the desk from him, the judge said, "I assume both of you have seen the news this morning, that Mr. Murdock is officially missing."

Both attorneys replied, "Yes, Your Honor."

The judge continued, "I think it's safe to assume at least some of the jurors have, too. Even if they were following my instructions not to read any media coverage of this trial, they could have seen a report about Mr. Murdock inadvertently. Yesterday, I handled the situation the way you suggested, Mr. Nelson, and instructed the jurors not to speculate about the reasons for his absence. That won't work any longer, now that the news is out."

Before Foggy could reply, Thompson spoke up. "Defendant Atreus Plastics, Inc. moves for a mistrial."

The judge looked at Foggy. "Mr. Nelson?"

"We don't know that Mr. Murdock's absence will have any effect on the jury. But if the court is concerned about that, then we need to speak to the jurors individually."

Judge Vogel pursed his lips, apparently considering his decision. Then he nodded. "Agreed, Mr. Nelson." He rose from his chair and went over to the door leading to the courtroom. "Ask Juror No. 1 to come in," he ordered the bailiff.

An hour later, the judge and the two attorneys had finished speaking with all twelve jurors, plus the two alternates. The judge leaned back in his chair, his hands folded under his chin, and looked down for a moment. Then he said, "I'm satisfied the jurors can be fair and impartial and decide the case based on the law and the evidence. The motion for mistrial is denied."

The lunch recess finally arrived. Karen went back to the office to assemble the exhibits they needed for the afternoon's witnesses. Foggy went to the cafeteria in the courtroom basement, where he found a table at the far end. After checking to make sure none of the jurors was nearby, he took out his phone and called Brett Mahoney.

"Any news?" he asked when Brett answered.

"Not really," the detective told him. "Still no word of him at any of the hospitals or morgues. We've been getting a shitload of calls on the tip line we set up. Not just the usual crackpots, either. But no sightings that we've been able to verify."

Foggy lowered his voice. "What about sightings of Daredevil?"

"Only the one I told you about last night, when he was spotted stopping a robbery at a liquor store on the night he disappeared. No new reports since then."

Foggy's heart sank. "Thanks for the update," he said, and ended the call. He ate his lunch, barely tasting it. There had to be _something_ he could do. What could he do that Brett wasn't already doing? Then the answer came to him. He picked up his phone and called Jessica Jones.

To his surprise, she picked up. "Hey, Nelson," she said. "Any news about Murdock?"

"No. That's why I'm calling."

"I haven't heard anything, either."

"No one has. The cops are doing what they can, but I'm thinking, um, I'm thinking you can do things the cops can't."

"Maybe," Jessica replied, sounding thoughtful, "but I have to have someplace to start."

"You don't know of anything he's been involved in lately, something that might make him pull a disappearing act?"

"No. But I haven't seen him, or the devil, in months."

"Damn," Foggy swore. "I was hoping you might know something."

"Sorry. You don't have any ideas?"

"Well, Karen thinks Wilson Fisk has him."

"Oh, shit, that's right, Fisk just got out on bail. But isn't he on house arrest?"

"Yes, but that wouldn't stop him."

"No, it wouldn't," Jessica agreed. "I'll ask around, see what I can find out. That asshole better not be dead, this time."

Foggy tried to ignore the stab of fear in his gut. "Yeah," he agreed.

"If he's not, he has to be somewhere," Jessica observed.

"Yeah, but where?"

"If he's out there, we'll find him."

"Thanks, Jess." Feeling somewhat reassured, Foggy ended the call.

# # #

_Matt_

Sometime later, he slept. He was jolted awake by a high-pitched, piercing sound, like a smoke alarm going off. He covered his ears with his hands, but it didn't help. His heightened hearing made it worse. He searched frantically for a way to escape the screeching racket or turn it off. Then he remembered where he was. There was no way out. He crouched in the corner, his face to the wall, his hands covering his ears in a futile effort to block the sound. There had to be something he could use to muffle the sound, but what? Finally, it came to him: the pallet he was sitting on was made of foam. He scooted off of it and burrowed under it. That helped, but only a little. Almost as soon as he went under the pallet, the sound stopped. He waited a couple of minutes, then came out from under the foam pad.

_Fisk_

Fisk was back in the video room, observing Murdock. He smiled with satisfaction at Murdock's reaction to the blast of sound, then frowned when he disappeared under the foam pallet. "Shut it down," he ordered the technician who managed the room's video and audio set-up. When Murdock emerged from underneath the pallet, he turned to the technician. "Again," he ordered. The high-pitched shriek resumed. Murdock scrambled back under the pallet and stayed there until Fisk ordered the technician to turn off the sound. Smiling, Fisk strode from the room. This was just the beginning.

_Matt_

As soon as the racket began again, Matt dove back under the pallet. It blocked some of the noise but not all. It seemed to go on longer this time but finally stopped. Still under the pallet, he took a deep breath, grateful for the blessed silence but wondering how long it would last. Finally, he decided to risk coming out. The room remained silent. All he heard was the ringing in his ears. This was not good. Was that Fisk's plan, to "blind" him by damaging his hearing?

# # #

_Karen_

After court adjourned for the day, she went back to the office with Foggy, but she didn't work on the trial. Instead, she put together a flyer with a photo of Matt. When she finished it, she left the office and stopped by the local copy shop to make copies. Then she went home, where she changed into jeans and running shoes, preparing to go out and search for Matt. She heard Matt's voice in her head, protesting that it was too dangerous. She ignored it. Before she left her apartment, she checked her handbag to make sure she had her gun, pepper spray, and flashlight. Taking the flyers with her, she headed out.

Tonight, she planned to cover the blocks in the Forties between 10th and 11th – the heart of Hell's Kitchen. Even though she believed Fisk had Matt, she wouldn't put it past Fisk to dump Matt on the streets when he was finished with him, to send a message. She needed to be sure Matt wasn't out there, on the streets, alone and injured, or worse. Her stomach knotted at the thought.

As she walked along the streets of the Kitchen, she posted the flyer on the lamp posts and went into the businesses that were open, asking the owners to post it in the window. Many of them knew Matt, or knew of him, and readily agreed. She also asked passers-by if they had seen Matt, handing them a flyer. Most ignored her and kept walking. A few took the flyer, glanced at it, and handed it back or threw it away. No one had seen Matt. With her flashlight in one hand and the other hand on the gun in her handbag, she searched the alleys, finding nothing but overflowing trash cans and dumpsters, scattered trash, a few stray cats, and in one alley, a drug deal in progress. She retreated hastily, before the dealer and his customer noticed her. Disappointed but not discouraged, she made her way home after midnight. She'd do the same thing tomorrow night and every night after that, until Matt was found.

# # #

_Twelve Days Later  
__Foggy_

Foggy and Karen were sitting at a table at Josie's, their drinks untouched in front of them. The jury in _Cooper v. Atreus Plastics, Inc._ had come back that afternoon, returning a seven-figure verdict, including punitive damages, in favor of their client, but neither of them felt much like celebrating. It had been two weeks since Matt disappeared. Between the stress of the trial and Matt going missing, both of them were drained. At least being in trial had one advantage: the long hours they spent in the courtroom and at the office, focusing on the case, were hours they weren't agonizing over Matt's disappearance.

Foggy glanced up at the TV above the bar and noticed the word "Daredevil" in the graphic at the bottom of the screen. "Can you turn it up?" he asked Josie. She obliged.

One of the news anchors was reporting that there had not been any Daredevil sightings for the past two weeks. He and his co-anchor, a woman, speculated about the reasons for the vigilante's absence. Calling him "Hell's Kitchen's own vigilante," the woman pointed out that Daredevil had disappeared before, sometimes for months, but he had always returned. Then they played a clip of Brett Mahoney, responding to their request for a comment on Daredevil's apparent disappearance and the recent spike in the crime rate in Hell's Kitchen. Looking unhappy, Brett said, "Vigilantism is illegal. I hope no harm has come to Daredevil, but I also hope he's seen the error of his ways and has ceased his extra-legal activities. He needs to leave crime fighting to the professionals of the NYPD."

When the coverage switched to another story, Foggy said, "Thanks, Josie," indicating she could mute the sound again.

"Damn," Karen said, keeping her voice low. "Do you think they're going to connect Daredevil's disappearance with Matt going missing at the same time?"

"I doubt it," Foggy replied. "People go missing all the time. There's no reason to connect Matt and . . . him."

"I hope you're right."

"Me, too." He stared into his glass and finally picked it up and drank. "You still think it's Fisk?"

Karen brushed her hair back from her face and nodded. "I do."

"I'll talk to Brett in the morning, see where his head is at."

# # #

"Hey, Brett," Foggy said, taking a seat in the detective's office at the 15th Precinct. "Any news?"

Brett rubbed his face wearily. "No. Not even one confirmed sighting. I'm beginning to think we might have to call in the psychics."

"Not funny, Brett."

The detective nodded. "I know," he said. "But to be honest, we don't have a single good lead."

"It's Fisk," Foggy insisted, "it's gotta be Fisk."

"So you keep saying," Brett replied, "but where's the evidence?"

"Damn it, Brett! You know it's Fisk," Foggy declared, standing up and jabbing a finger toward the detective to make his point.

From behind his desk, Brett gave Foggy an indulgent look. "We don't _know_ anything," he said patiently. "Fisk's my number one suspect, but like I said, we need evidence."

"Search his place, you'll find Matt," Foggy asserted.

"Maybe, but unlike certain people," Brett replied pointedly, "the NYPD has to operate within the law. The terms of Fisk's release on bail allow us to search his person and his residence, but not the whole building. We don't have probable cause to get a search warrant for the rest of the building. You know the law as well as I do. Our hands are tied."

Foggy gave a frustrated huff and fell back into the visitor's chair across the desk from Brett. He knew Brett was right. But he still didn't like it.

"Look," Brett continued, "I'm as concerned as you are. And we're doing everything we can. We've done routine searches of the apartment – "

"Yeah," Foggy interrupted. "And found nothing. Fisk's not stupid."

Brett frowned. "I know. But we're keeping a close watch on him. If he does anything, anything at all, that looks suspicious, we'll be in front of a judge, asking for a search warrant."

"He won't," Foggy stated flatly. He stood up and started to leave, then turned around to give his parting shot. "Thanks for nothing." He marched out of the office.

Brett rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

Still fuming, Foggy left the 15th Precinct and headed back to the office. As he replayed his conversation with Brett in his mind, the detective's reference to "certain people" stood out. That reminded him. Brett's hands were tied, but his weren't. Maybe Jessica had found out something. He pulled out his phone and called her.

# # #

_Matt_

Time passed. He wasn't sure how much. Without light perception, it was easy for his circadian rhythms to get out of sync with the cycle of day and night. In his everyday life, other cues kept him on the same schedule as everyone else, more or less. Not here. At first, the deliveries of food, on what seemed to be a normal three-times-a-day schedule, helped him keep track of the passage of time. Then the trays started appearing irregularly. Then they stopped completely. He drank water in a vain attempt to quell his hunger pangs. Eventually, they stopped. He'd read that people deprived of food stopped feeling hunger after a while, but he didn't know how long it took to reach that point. He wondered if this was Fisk's plan all along: to watch him starve to death. Maybe that was why Fisk hadn't simply killed him.

He was sitting on the pallet, repeating the phrase that had become his mantra, "Don't give in to the fear," when he heard the click of the flap in the wall, followed by the sound of a tray sliding along the shelf. At first, he thought it was a cruel trick, Fisk sending him an empty tray, but he could smell something that he thought was food. He got to his feet and crossed the room. He sniffed the contents of the tray. It was food, all right. He started to eat, warning himself, "Not too much, not too fast." He finished about half of the food before his body rebelled. He barely made it to the toilet before he brought up everything he had just eaten. He continued to retch, long after his stomach was empty, his throat burning from the stomach acid. Utterly spent, he rested his forehead against the metal of the toilet bowl.

What was Fisk's game? The arrival of food meant that Fisk wasn't looking to starve him to death. He was using food as a weapon, part of his manipulation. For what? Matt didn't know. And he wasn't sure how to fight it. Maybe he should simply stop eating and put an end to Fisk's game. It would put an end to himself, too, but he already knew the odds were against him getting out of this alive. That might be his only way out. _No_. Deep inside him, at the core of his being, a spark of resistance still smoldered. He wouldn't give Fisk the satisfaction of seeing him give up. He pushed himself to his feet and returned to the food tray that was still sitting on its shelf. He ate a couple of mouthfuls. After a while, when they stayed down, he ate some more. Slowly, he finished the rest of the food, then stretched out on the pallet, exhausted.

_Fisk_

Standing next to Fisk in the video room, Vanessa watched Matt in silence. When he had finished the food and was lying on his pallet, she turned to her husband. "Should we be doing something about his friends, Nelson and Page?" she asked.

"Not yet," Fisk replied. "If anything happens to them while Murdock's missing, it could attract unwanted scrutiny."

"But surely the police already suspect you," Vanessa pointed out.

"Of course they do, but they have nothing." Fisk strode down to the end of the row of monitors, then turned to face her. "No, our first priority is neutralizing Murdock." He jabbed a finger at the monitor on the end. "Then we'll decide what to do about his friends."

"Are you sure this is the best way to handle him?" she asked.

"Yes," Fisk replied.

"He has talents that could be . . . useful," she suggested.

"_No!"_ Fisk barked. "We could never trust him. And when this is over, he'll be of no use to me – or to anyone else. Including himself."


	3. Chapter 3 - Staying Alive

_Chapter 3 – Staying Alive_

_Matt_

Weeks passed. Or so he thought. There was no way for him to know for sure. He kept up his routine of meditation and exercise. Meditation helped keep him centered, and he had to stay fit, to have any hope of dealing with whatever Fisk was going to throw at him.

He was sure of one thing: Fisk was still playing his games. Food arrived, more or less regularly, until it didn't. When there was food, it was always the same bland, tasteless crap, but he ate it anyway. No telling when the next meal would arrive, if at all. The food deliveries still stopped unpredictably. So far, they had always resumed, usually after he had gone without food for long enough that he no longer felt hungry. He didn't know what Fisk had planned for him, but apparently it wasn't death by starvation. When a tray finally reappeared through the slot in the wall, it took all of his self-control not to wolf down all of the food at once. He knew what happened when he did that.

The heavy silence of the place weighed on him. But that was preferable to the high-pitched shriek that sometimes awakened him from sleep, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body and putting him into full "fight or flight" mode. After the first time, he knew what to do when this happened. He burrowed under the foam pallet and waited it out. After each assault on his hearing, the ringing in his ears seemed to be louder and last longer. And when the ringing finally stopped, the silence of the room seemed, somehow, thicker, more impenetrable. When it became too much, he would talk to himself out loud, just to hear the sound of his voice. Sometimes he even sang a song, not caring that he couldn't carry a tune if his life depended on it. There was no one here to hear him, no one except himself and Fisk.

It wasn't only his hearing. All of his senses were dulled, dampened. He now understood that was part of Fisk's game. Since losing his sight at the age of nine, he had lived in a rich sensory environment. Now that had been taken away from him. With so little sensory input, he felt as if his senses were shutting down. He knew what that was like, from the days after he survived Midland Circle. His senses came back then, but would they come back again? He wasn't sure. The thought of losing them filled him with dread.

He felt the lack of human contact, too, more keenly that he would have expected. After all, he had been alone for much of his life. But never like this. God, he missed Karen and Foggy, so much. Their absence was an aching void in his chest that never entirely went away. But it was nothing compared to the despair that engulfed him at the thought of never seeing them again. And there were regrets, too. Regret for the way he'd treated them. Regret for the time he had wasted, denying his feelings for Karen. In the end, they'd only had about six months together. Now, it seemed, that was all the time they were going to have.

He finally decided to try to make contact with the person who delivered his food. There had to be a person who did that. That was his only chance to make contact with a fellow human being. He waited next to the slot in the door for what felt like a very long time. Finally, it opened. He thrust his hand and forearm through the slot, knocking the food tray off the shelf. His hand touched only empty air. "Say something! _Please!_" he pleaded. There was no response. The flap started to close, and he withdrew his hand. He sank to his knees, tears of frustration trickling down his cheeks.

One morning, or night – it hardly mattered which – he awoke from sleep. It felt like he had been sleeping a lot lately. Why not? It wasn't as if there was anything else for him to do. And the lack of food didn't help. He counted back: he had slept three times – or was it four? – since the last time he ate. He lay on the pallet, not moving, his arms crossed under his head. Hopelessness and despair were pulling at him, dragging him down, into the black hole of depression. He had been there before. But it felt worse this time, because there really was no way out.

Then he looked deep within himself and found something that was even stronger than the pull of the black hole: his hatred for Wilson Fisk. There was no way he was going to let Fisk see him give up. He pushed himself to his feet and stood next to the wall at the foot of his pallet. He had discovered, early on, that there was soundproofing material, something like insulation, behind the sound-dampening cloth that covered the walls of his prison. It wasn't a heavy bag, but he could use the padded walls for sparring practice. He hadn't lost his skills, but he was losing muscle mass. His uppercuts and jabs lacked their usual power. He persisted anyway. With every blow, he imagined his fists connecting with Fisk's head. He could almost hear the crunch of bones breaking, and smell and taste Fisk's blood in the air. Finally, the endorphins kicked in and lifted him out of the black hole. For now. He knew it would be back.

Then, when he thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. He was meditating, sitting cross-legged on the pallet. Suddenly, the silence, the darkness, and the stillness became heavier, palpable. The room felt airless. He couldn't catch his breath. The walls were closing in on him. He scrambled to his feet, reaching out blindly in front of him to push them back. There was nothing there. After a few more steps, he reached the wall, exactly where it always was. He collapsed onto the floor, struggling to slow his breathing and his heart rate.

_Fisk_

Later, reviewing the day's recordings in the video room, Fisk nodded approvingly as he watched the attack of claustrophobia. It was all going according to his plan.

_Karen_

Karen bent down to pick up Matt's mail from the floor. Mail in hand, she made her way down the entry hall to the living room. Foggy followed her and took a seat on the couch. She sat next to him, sorting the mail and placing each piece on its proper stack on the coffee table.

"You look tired," Foggy observed. "Still going out at night to look for him?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Most nights."

"How long?" Foggy asked.

She turned and gave him a surprised look. "Two months as of next Tuesday," she said.

"That's not what I meant," Foggy clarified. "I meant, how much longer are we gonna do this?"

"Do what you want," Karen snapped, "but I'm not ready to give up."

"No, no," Foggy said, holding out his hands to placate her. "Not giving up, exactly. I just meant, how much longer are we gonna pay the bills?"

"Sounds like giving up to me." Karen sniffed. "It's only been two months. He was gone that long, before." She stood up and started walking around the apartment, doing a visual survey. Nothing had changed in the three days since she was last here. Matt hadn't been home. Not that she expected him to be. Her circuit of the apartment complete, she returned to the living room and sat in one of the chairs opposite Foggy.

Foggy raised his head. "Look, I'm not counting Matt out yet, either. If he could survive Midland Circle, he can survive . . . whatever is happening now."

"You mean he can survive Fisk," Karen replied. "That's what's happening to him now."

"You don't know that," Foggy objected.

"No, but it's the only explanation that makes sense. Fisk has him. We have to keep looking."

"But where?" Foggy asked. "Brett says they're still getting reports of sightings on the tip line, but none of them have panned out. He's running out of options. _We're_ running out of options."

"I know." Karen slumped down in the chair and closed her eyes. Their chances of finding Matt alive dwindled with every passing day. In the beginning, they got daily reports from Brett; now they were lucky if they heard from him once a week. Matt's disappearance had long since faded from the public consciousness. In spite of Karen's efforts to replace them, the "missing person" flyers they had placed throughout Hell's Kitchen and beyond were mostly gone, torn down by the ignorant or uncaring, or simply blown away in the wind. Even the $50,000 reward offered by Danny Rand had not produced any results.

Jessica seemed to have reached a dead end in her search for Matt. None of her usual sources were talking. She told Karen and Foggy she wasn't sure if it was because they were afraid of Fisk or they truly didn't know anything. She also talked to Luke Cage, Colleen Wing, and even Danny Rand, who was still in Asia. None of them knew of anything Matt was involved in that would cause him to disappear. There had been no sightings in Chinatown or Harlem. According to Danny, there was no sign of a return of the Hand or Elektra, who had not been seen since the collapse of Midland Circle, more than two years ago.

For now, Jessica was keeping an eye on Fisk's building and checking regularly with the neighbors, hoping to find someone who had seen something suspicious or simply out of the ordinary. Nothing yet. She was working on finding a way to get into the building, but had not yet been able to get past the security system.

Foggy interrupted Karen's thoughts. "If you're right, and Fisk has Matt – "

"He does," Karen said firmly.

" – why so long? I mean, what's Fisk been doing to him, all this time?"

"Nothing good," Karen replied grimly. Let's not go there, she told herself. The possibilities were too awful to contemplate.

Apparently, Foggy didn't want to go there, either. He changed the subject, asking,"You really think Matt's still alive?"

Karen nodded. "I do." She knitted her brows as she organized her thoughts, then continued. "Look, if Fisk kills Matt, he'll want him to be found, so he can expose Matt as Daredevil and gloat that he's no longer a threat."

"But Fisk's not gonna admit to killing Matt," Foggy objected.

"Of course not. But he doesn't have to. With Matt gone, he can claim Daredevil was the real threat to Hell's Kitchen, not him."

"You really think people will fall for that?"

"Some will. Fisk's a master manipulator. He turned people against Daredevil before. He could do it again."

She sat silently for several minutes, trying to convince herself that Matt was still alive. Then Foggy spoke up. "We should get back. We both have work to do."

"You go ahead," she replied. "I'll just be a few minutes."

"OK," Foggy said as he stood up. He gave her a worried look before he turned to leave.

After the door closed behind Foggy, Karen sighed wearily and stood up. She walked slowly around the apartment, not wanting to leave and break the connection to Matt that she felt in this place. Since his disappearance, she had been visiting his apartment every few days, and not only to collect his mail. It was the only place she could still feel that connection. As long as she could feel it, she would hold out hope that Matt was still alive, just as she'd done when he was missing before. But it was harder this time. When Midland Circle collapsed, they at least had some idea of what had happened to Matt, even if there was no proof he had perished under the building. Now, he was just . . . gone.

Not ready to leave yet, she walked up the stairs to the roof. She imagined Matt, dressed in black with his mask pulled up, standing or crouching in the corner of the roof, his head tilted in the way that said he was alert for any sign of trouble in the Kitchen. She felt the pain of his absence as keenly as ever, but no tears came. Not anymore. She had shed her tears in the first few days after he disappeared.

After several minutes, she tore herself away. Foggy was right; they had work to do. She went downstairs and left the apartment, locking the door behind her. On her way to the office, she checked the alleys and areaways, hoping against hope to find Matt in one of them. There was no sign of him. In one alley, her heart leaped when she saw a man about Matt's height, with a mop of dark brown hair. But only for an instant. Then he turned toward her, and she saw him more clearly: he wasn't Matt. She quizzed the people she encountered on the street and handed out copies of the flyer with a photo of Matt, but no one had seen him.

Reluctantly, she turned her steps toward the office. Time to get back to work. Neither she nor Foggy had moved on – far from it – but life did, whether they wanted it to or not. The law didn't care that Matt was missing. Neither did the courts or opposing counsel or even their clients. Sure, most of their clients were sympathetic and concerned, but they had their own problems and were looking to her and Foggy to handle them. And so they did. They had to, if they wanted to have a practice for Matt to come back to.

_Matt_

He made another circuit of the room, the latest of many, searching for a way out. He snapped his fingers and tapped the walls, listening for some anomaly that might reveal the location of a door. Nothing. At least, nothing that his senses could detect through the soundproofing. He pounded his fists on the padded wall, then raised his head toward the ceiling and gave a wordless howl of frustration.

He retreated to the corner and sat down on the pallet to meditate, hoping to free his mind from his anger and frustration. It didn't work, not this time. He was too filled with rage, both at Fisk and at himself. He was a God damn fool for not killing Fisk when he had the chance. He could still remember the feeling of holding Fisk's head in his hands, ready to snap his neck. But he didn't do it. He backed off. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Frank Castle was right: what he did, it was only half measures. That wasn't enough, not with Fisk. Matt had let Fisk live, believing he was preventing Fisk from destroying him. He was wrong. All he did was to give Fisk another chance, another way, to destroy him. Which he was doing now, in this room, in this hell.

His rage took over. He pounded his fist on the pallet, then stood up. "Come out and face me, you God damn son of a bitch!" he yelled at the ceiling. "Let's end this." There was no response. He didn't expect one. "Fucking coward," he muttered under his breath as he sank back down onto the pallet. He knew Fisk wasn't going to fight him, not even now, in his weakened state. Matt had beaten him before when the odds were against him. Fisk wouldn't risk letting that happen again.

Matt took several deep breaths, trying to slow his breathing and his heartbeat. He felt his rage begin to dissipate. As the rage flowed out of him, he started to pray. After he emerged from the rubble of Midland Circle, his relationship with God had been . . . difficult. He no longer believed he was doing God's work as Daredevil, but eventually, he came to accept that his life had turned out exactly as it was supposed to be. Now, in this place, the words of the prayer felt hollow, meaningless. He was utterly alone. If there was a divine presence, it didn't reach inside his prison. Yet this was precisely the kind of place where the divine presence should be strongest. If what he'd been taught to believe was true, God was most present in places where human cruelty was at its worst, with the victims of torture or genocide or endless wars. It wasn't personal. It wasn't because he felt God had abandoned him. It went beyond his childish disappointment when he learned that God didn't speak to him. It was an abiding conviction that, if God wasn't here, in this place, He wasn't anywhere. He wondered how Father Lantom had kept his faith, after witnessing the Rwandan genocide. He should have asked him when he had the chance.

The memory of Father Lantom and how he had died, at the hand of Fisk's assassin, rekindled Matt's rage. He held fast to one certainty: if he got out of here, he would kill Wilson Fisk. No backing off, next time. In the darkness and silence, he occupied his mind by devising ways of killing him, each one more grotesque and painful than the last. Eventually, he ran out of ideas and slept.

One day or night – there was no difference here – Matt suddenly heard something he had not heard in God knew how long: the heartbeat and voice of another human being. His heart pounding, he got to his feet. Was his ordeal finally over? Or had Fisk finally tired of the game and sent someone to end it by killing him?

"Hey, Matt," the voice said. He didn't recognize it at first, then . . . .

"Foggy?" he asked.

"Yeah, Matt, it's me," Foggy said, sounding fed up. "You know how much it sucks when you up and disappear like this?"

"But, Fog," he stammered, "uh, it's not . . . how did you . . . um, I didn't . . . it's Fisk."

Foggy didn't seem to hear him. "Do you have any idea what this is doing to Karen? Do you even care? She's barely keeping her shit together. She doesn't deserve this. Neither do I." He scoffed. "Asshole."

Matt could no longer hear his heartbeat. "Foggy!" he cried out. There was no response. Matt sank to his knees, covered his face with his hands, and wept.

_Foggy_

Foggy stood up and waved when he saw Brett Mahoney coming in the door at Josie's. "Brett! Over here."

Brett sat down next to him at the bar. "Hey, Nelson, what's up?"

Before Foggy could answer him, Josie was standing in front of them. Brett ordered a beer. After she set it on the bar, Foggy answered his question. "Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing."

Brett frowned. "If you're asking about Murdock, I got nothing new. It's like he just vanished. I'm beginning to think that weird group, you know, the one with the ninjas, must be involved."

"I don't think so." Foggy shook his head, then took a drink from his bottle of beer. "As far as I know, the group's leaders were all taken out when Midland Circle came down, if not before. And Danny Rand says there's no sign of them coming back, over in Asia." He drank again, then studied the table top for a moment. "My money's still on Fisk."

"Speaking of him," Brett said, "I have some news. The judge finally gave us a date for his retrial, thirty days from today."

"About time," Foggy replied crossly. "It's been three months already, plenty of time for Fisk to get to the witnesses, or maybe the judge. You know he'll do anything to make sure he doesn't go back to prison."

"I know," Brett conceded, "but the evidence is pretty overwhelming. And as far as I know, Fisk hasn't gotten to anyone."

"Yet," Foggy pointed out. "Give him time. And he could still get to the jurors, like he got to the members of the grand jury when Ray Nadeem testified."

"Maybe," Brett said grimly. "But he doesn't have the clout he used to." He finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the table. Then he gave Foggy a worried look. "You holding up OK, with Murdock being gone, I mean?"

"Yeah. I guess. But it's been almost three months. That's longer than it was, you know, when he was gone before. I don't know if he's coming back, this time."

Brett stood to leave, then put a hand on Foggy's shoulder. "Hang in there, man," he said before he walked away.

_Matt_

After the visitation from "Foggy," he wondered if anyone in the outside world was still looking for him. There would have been a flurry of activity when he first went missing, but as time passed . . . not so much. Brett Mahoney wouldn't give up, he was sure of that, but at some point, Mahoney would have done everything he could. Unless there was a break in the case, there simply would be nothing left for him to do. Foggy and Karen wouldn't give up, either, but they would hit the same wall. They wouldn't forget him, but they'd inevitably move on, sooner or later.

Eventually, it had to end, one way or another. At some point, Fisk would tire of playing games and have him killed. That probably was the only way he was ever going to escape this hell. When it came, he might even welcome it. He would go crazy for real if he had to spend much more time trapped in this room.

Wait a God damn minute, he told was Fisk's game. The goal wasn't to kill him, it was to break him, destroy him. He couldn't allow that to happen. If he did, Fisk would win. He had to escape. He couldn't escape physically; he had finally accepted that there was no way out. So he escaped by retreating into his own mind and walling himself off from the place that was threatening to destroy his sanity, his self. He was with Foggy and Karen, Sister Maggie, even Battlin' Jack. And he killed Wilson Fisk, over and over again.

_Fisk_

Fisk stared at the monitor that showed Matt curled up on the pallet in a fetal position, talking to people who weren't there. His plan had worked, he thought with a satisfied smile. Time for the next step. And not a moment too soon; his retrial was scheduled to begin in a few days. He summoned Francis, who had become Vanessa's top lieutenant, and gave him his orders.

* * *

_Author's Note:_ There will be a short hiatus while I'm traveling for the holidays. Chapter 4 should be posted in about 10 days. In the meantime, Happy Holidays to all!


	4. Chapter 4 - The Way Back, Part 1

_Chapter 4 – The Way Back, Part 1_

_Day One_

_Matt_

A wave of sounds washed over him, in an undifferentiated roar. Reflexively, he clamped his hands over his ears. That helped, a bit. What was this place? Not the room where he had spent . . . however long it had been. Was this some new hell devised for him by Fisk? There were smells, mostly unpleasant ones: garbage, jizz, dog shit, cat piss, and worse. He was sitting on a hard surface, with his back against a different hard surface. He reached back to touch it: brick, warmed by . . . the sun? He could feel it on his face, too. A breeze stirred, ruffling his hair. He was outside. For an instant, he dared to hope. Had Fisk let him go? No. Whatever this was, wherever he was, it was all part of Fisk's plan.

He ran his hands over his body and discovered he was no longer wearing the jumpsuit that had been his only clothing for . . . however long it was. Now he was wearing a T-shirt, hoodie, and jeans. It was a relief to be out of the jumpsuit. After a while, he stopped noticing its odor, even with his enhanced sense of smell, but he knew it had to be pretty rank. Himself, too. He had done his best to keep himself clean, but washing at the sink, without soap, was no substitute for a real shower or bath. He hoped his new clothing, at least, was clean.

He knew one thing: he wasn't going to stay here. He pulled himself to his feet and started to walk. He was dizzy, unsteady on his feet. Fisk must have drugged him, again, to bring him to this place. He had only taken a few steps when he collided with something. He reached out and examined it. A dumpster, he thought. Wait a minute. He didn't run into things. He knew how to do this. He inclined his head forward, took a deep breath and focused. That was better. He got a basic sense of his surroundings – an alley, apparently – and continued on his way. At the end of the alley, he turned onto a busy sidewalk and almost immediately bumped into a person he had failed to detect. "Sorry," he muttered.

The person pushed him away roughly, saying, "Look where you're going, asshole." He lost his balance and fell to the pavement.

A different voice said, "Leave him be. He's just a drunk."

"Or a junkie," the first voice said, then walked away.

Matt got back on his feet and continued on his way down the sidewalk. People were all around him. He could sense their movements, hear their voices, smell them. It was too much. He turned around and walked, as quickly as he dared, back toward the alley where he had found himself. Then he stopped short. Fisk put him in that alley. If Fisk wanted him there, it was the last place he should be. He took a deep breath, told himself to focus, and turned to walk in the opposite direction, away from the alley.

The aromas of food and coffee attracted him. God, it had been such a long time since he'd smelled coffee and food, real food. He went into the place the aromas were coming from. Almost immediately, he heard a person approaching. "Get out," the person said.

Matt held out his hands. "Wait . . . p-please," he stammered.

"Out, _now_," the person repeated. "Stinkin' bum." He punctuated his words with a shove. Matt staggered but didn't fall, this time. He left.

Back on the sidewalk, a woman passed by him, then stopped and turned around. Without warning, she grabbed his hand. "You look like you could use this," she said, pressing a piece of paper into his hand. She walked away without another word.

Bemused, Matt touched the piece of paper. From its size and shape, he guessed it was money. But there was no way for him to tell its denomination. He shrugged and put it in his pocket. He continued walking along the sidewalk, rubbing his temples. He felt a headache coming on. He turned into the next alley he passed, looking for someplace quieter to sit and regroup. There were two men at the far end of the alley. They were keeping their voices low, but Matt could hear them. They were doing a drug deal. Shit. He did not want to be here. He started to leave, but he was too late. They had seen him. The customer fled, but the dealer was coming toward him.

"Hey, man," Matt said, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. The dealer ignored him and threw a punch that landed on the right side of Matt's face. Instinctively, he fought back. Somehow, his muscle memory and training had stayed with him during his captivity. The drug dealer soon lay on the ground, unconscious. Matt took off. He was starting to think he knew this part of Fisk's plan: dump him on the streets and let him die or be killed there. It was probably going to work, he thought. He went in search of another alley, one that he would have to himself. He needed some space, to figure out what to do next.

He found an alley a couple of blocks away and followed it to the back of a building. He sat down not far from a dumpster, leaning against the building's rear wall. On the way there, the answer finally came to him: he had to find Foggy and Karen. But how? He didn't have a phone. He didn't even know where he was. And based on his experiences so far, he didn't think anyone would be willing to help him. He leaned back and rubbed his temples some more, trying to ease his headache.

_Jessica_

Jessica jumped down from the roof of the building where she'd been snapping photos of her client's husband and his paramour in the "love nest" he maintained for her in the building next door. "Yeah, right," she thought scornfully. What she'd just seen looked more like lust. She landed lightly in the alley behind the building. A gasp and scrabbling noises came from her left. She looked in that direction and saw a homeless man sitting next to a dumpster. Saying something she couldn't make out, he held out his hands as if warding her off. Uncertain what, if anything, she should do, she decided to take a closer look. He didn't seem to be aware of her approach at first, then shrank back behind the dumpster.

"Hey, man, it's OK, I'm not gonna hurt you," she said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone of voice. Reassurance wasn't really her thing. She squatted down a few feet away from him and took a look. His hair and beard were matted, and he was painfully thin. Then he raised his head slightly. There was something . . . holy shit. Her heart pounded. It couldn't be. "Murdock?" she asked.

_Karen_

Karen and Foggy rushed into the Emergency Room at Metro-General, frantically looking for Jessica. Foggy spotted her first. She met them halfway.

Before either of them could ask her a question, she said, "They took him back to be treated right away. I think he's gonna be OK . . . physically. "

Karen noticed Jessica's pause and the break in her voice when she said "physically." Apparently Foggy did, too, because he asked, "And mentally?"

Jessica frowned and looked away. "I don't know. He didn't say much on the way here, but whatever happened to him while he was gone, it was bad, real bad."

Karen's heart began to race. "Bad how?"

Jessica held out her hands, palms up. "Like I said, I don't know. But you need to be prepared. I almost didn't recognize him when I found him."

"Now you're scaring me," Karen told her. "C'mon, Foggy, let's go." She led the way, pushing through the crowded waiting room until they got to the triage nurse. The medical powers of attorney they'd made Matt sign got them into the treatment area. They finally found the curtained-off space where he was being treated.

"You first," Foggy said.

Her heart still pounding, Karen took a deep breath and pulled the curtain aside. Even after Jessica's warning, what she saw shocked her. Matt was almost unrecognizable. His hair and beard were a tangled mess. He was pale and thinner than she'd ever seen him. His eyes were sunken, with deep, dark circles below them. The lines on his face were deeper than she remembered. And there were new ones, lines that weren't there the last time she saw him. Her first impulse was to flee, find someplace where Matt couldn't hear her, and sob uncontrollably. It took all of her self-control to fight that impulse. "Omigod," she breathed before she could stop herself. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

Matt heard her, of course. "That bad, huh?"

She let out her breath in a sigh of relief. His voice sounded rough, as if he hadn't used it recently, but the words sounded like him. "Oh, Matt, I'm sorry," she said.

"You're not the one who should be sorry," he told her. He fell silent for a long moment, then asked, "How long?"

"Four months," she told him. She watched him as he seemed to take in this information, apparently comparing it with things he remembered. When he didn't say anything else, she decided not to ask him where he was or what happened. Not yet. Instead, she pulled a chair up to his bedside. She caught a whiff of him as she came closer. She wrinkled her nose, hoping he couldn't pick up the movement. Breathing through her mouth, she sat down and asked if it was OK to touch him. When he nodded, she took his hand.

She sat quietly, holding his hand. He seemed to relax at first. Then an alarm of some sort blared through the air. He cringed and grabbed his pillow, as if he was going to hide under it. Before he could do it, the alarm stopped. But when she looked at him again, he seemed to be . . . somewhere else. There was an emptiness in his eyes that she'd never seen before. It wasn't because of his blindness. She knew what his eyes looked like, normally. This was something different.

She stayed with Matt until a nurse peeked in and asked her to leave so the doctor could examine him. She kissed the back of his hand before letting it go.

As she came out of the curtained area, she looked at Foggy and started down the corridor, blinking back tears as she walked. He followed. As soon as she thought they were far enough away, she fell into Foggy's arms and sobbed. He held her and stroked her hair as she wept. When she finally looked up, she asked, "You saw?"

Foggy nodded grimly.

"Fisk did this," she declared furiously. "He's going to pay."

Foggy nodded again. He handed her his handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes and nose as they walked back to where Matt was being treated. As they arrived, a tall woman wearing a white lab coat over maroon scrubs was just emerging from the curtained area. The name embroidered over the pocket of her coat was "Meredith Connolly, M.D., Emergency Medicine."

Karen introduced herself and Foggy while Foggy dug in his briefcase and pulled out their powers of attorney. He handed them to Dr. Connolly. "No family?" she asked.

"None except us," Foggy replied, apparently deciding not to mention Sister Maggie. This wasn't the time to explain that whole situation. "How is he?" he asked.

"I'm not seeing anything life-threatening," the doctor began. "He's moderately malnourished, but that can be addressed with a healthy diet." Karen breathed a sigh of relief. "We're also giving him IV fluids to get his electrolytes back to where they should be. I'm going to admit him for observation overnight, just to make sure we haven't missed anything.

"But I am seeing scars and other signs of old injuries, probably pre-dating his going missing," the doctor continued. "The woman who brought him in – Ms. Jones?" Foggy nodded. "She said he'd been missing for about four months. Is that right?" Foggy nodded again. "The scars I'm seeing are definitely older than that. Can you tell me anything about them?"

"No," Foggy said firmly.

The doctor gave him a sharp look but didn't pursue it. "He says he's been totally blind since the age of nine. Is that correct?" she asked. Foggy nodded. "Would you say he's adapted well to his disability?"

"You could say that," Foggy said dryly. Karen rolled her eyes, turning away from the doctor so she wouldn't see.

"Do you have any idea where he was or what happened to him while he was missing?" Dr. Connolly asked.

"No idea."

"Well," the doctor said, as if she was thinking out loud, "I don't think he was on the streets the whole time. There are things we see in patients who have been on the streets, long term, and I'm not seeing them in his case."

"No, he wouldn't have been," Foggy said. "A lot of people were looking for him, not only the cops. If he was on the streets, someone would've spotted him long before now."

"Speaking of the NYPD," the doctor said, "they're going to want to question him."

"He's in no condition to be interrogated," Karen protested.

Dr. Connolly pressed her lips together, as if considering the question. "There's no medical reason to prevent him from talking to the police if he chooses to do so. He's an adult, and he's mentally competent. It's up to him."

"She's right," Foggy said. Karen huffed angrily. "Besides, it's Brett Mahoney's case. We can trust him." He turned to Dr. Connolly. "Can I see him?"

She nodded. "Yes. But not too long. He needs to rest."

"Understood."

_Foggy_

Foggy pulled the curtain aside and stepped in. "Hey, Matt," he said, "OK if I come in?"

Matt nodded. "Hey, Fog," he said quietly.

Foggy pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. He had seen Matt earlier, but even so, it was difficult not to react to the sight of his best friend in the hospital bed. He clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle an involuntary gasp.

Matt noticed his reaction. "You don't have to tell me. I look like shit, right?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Foggy agreed. He wanted to pepper Matt with questions about what happened to him, but he held himself in check. There would be time for that later.

"I guess you were pretty mad at me, huh, when I didn't show up for court?" Matt asked.

"At first," Foggy admitted.

"We win?"

"Oh, yeah, we won big," Foggy told him, smiling in spite of himself.

That got a half-smile out of Matt. Then he said, "You thought I bailed on you?"

"Something like that. Karen told me it was bullshit. She was sure it was Fisk, the whole time."

"She's right. Probably."

"'Probably'?" Foggy thought. Shit. He doesn't know. He decided to change the subject. "You know, Brett Mahoney's gonna want to talk to you."

"Sure," Matt said, "I'll talk to him."

"You sure you're up to it?"

Matt nodded, but he looked exhausted.

"I'm gonna let you rest, buddy," Foggy said. "But Karen and I, we're not going anywhere. We'll be right outside, OK?"

"OK," Matt whispered and closed his eyes. Foggy left, as quietly as he could.

_Brett_

When Brett arrived at the hospital and asked to speak with Murdock, an ER nurse told him he'd been admitted and transferred to the sixth floor. He found Nelson and Page there, in a waiting area next to the nurses' station. Murdock was in a room down the hall.

"Hey, Nelson, Ms. Page," he said as he approached them.

"Hey, Brett," Nelson replied.

"How's he doin'?"

"He looks like shit," Nelson said, "but the doc says he'll be OK . . . physically, anyway."

"And mentally?"

Nelson shrugged. "Hard to tell. You know what he's like."

"Yeah," Brett replied. "Has he said anything about, you know, about what happened? Or where he's been?"

Nelson and Page exchanged looks. "Not to us," she said, shaking her head. "We figured he'd tell us when he's ready." She stood up and started walking down the hall.

Brett looked in that direction and saw a sandy-haired man in a white lab coat coming out of a patient's room. He and Nelson followed Page down the hall, meeting the doctor halfway. Brett took out his credentials and introduced himself to the doctor, whose hospital badge identified him as "Andrew Orloski, M.D., Internal Medicine."

The doctor sighed. "I suppose you want to talk to him," he said to Brett.

Brett nodded. "If possible."

"All right. But only briefly."

"Understood."

The doctor turned to Nelson and Page. "His vital signs are stable. I started him on clear liquids, which he's tolerating well. When he's ready, we'll try solid food. I'll look in on him again later," he said, and walked away.

Brett walked down the hall and went into the room the doctor had just left. Nelson and Page followed. "Hey, Murdock," he said, "it's Brett Mahoney."

Murdock turned to face him. "Hey."

"Damn," Brett thought. Nelson wasn't kidding when he said Murdock looked like shit. He swallowed, then said, "OK if I ask you some questions?"

Murdock nodded. "Sure." Nelson and Page took a few steps into the room before Murdock spoke again. "Foggy, Karen, maybe you could grab a cup of coffee or something, while I talk to Brett?"

"But, Matt – ," Nelson protested.

Murdock interrupted him. "It's OK, Fog. I got this."

Nelson frowned, then turned and left the room, followed by Page. As they left, Brett said, "I'll come find you in the cafeteria, when I'm done." The door closed behind them.

Nelson was still fuming when Brett walked into the cafeteria. He got a cup of coffee, then sat down across from Nelson and Page.

"Well?" Nelson asked.

Brett frowned. "It was bad," he said grimly.

"Was it Fisk?" Page asked.

"He thinks so," Brett replied, "but he doesn't know."

"How can he not know?" she demanded.

"He was drugged," Brett explained. "After he stopped that liquor store robbery, he went out the back. Four guys, maybe five, were waiting for him."

"Fisk's men," Foggy said.

"Probably," Brett agreed. "Anyway, he was fighting them off, one of them was already down, when two of them got him in a hold. Before he could get out of it, another one came up behind him and stuck a needle in his neck. That's the last thing he remembers, until he woke up . . . ."

"Woke up where?" Karen asked.

"This is the part that's gonna be hard for you to hear," Brett said. He paused for a beat. "Murdock said I could tell you. I think he wants you to know, but he didn't want to be the one to tell you." He saw the questioning looks on their faces and explained, "Like I said, it's gonna be hard for you to hear it. It was easier for him to tell someone, uh, someone he's not so close to, you know." He swallowed, hard, before he continued. "He was held in a room, alone. Never had contact with another person, the whole time he was in there."

"Shit," Nelson muttered.

"Oh, my God," Page breathed.

"It gets worse," Brett told them. Two horrified faces turned toward him. "The way Murdock described it, it was like solitary on steroids. The room was some kind of sensory deprivation chamber. It was heavily soundproofed. He couldn't hear anything from the outside, even with his hyped-up hearing, and sounds inside the room got swallowed up. At random times, they – whoever it was – would blast loud sounds, something like a smoke alarm going off, into the room. He thought maybe they were trying to damage his hearing. There was almost nothing in the room, just a pallet on the floor and a sink and toilet. The food was bland and tasteless. And there were times when he went without food – for days at a time, he thought. But he really didn't know. There was no way for him to measure the passage of time in there."

Brett took a sip of his coffee and glanced up at Nelson. He looked stunned at what he'd just heard. Then his expression changed, to one Brett had never seen on Nelson's round face before: pure rage. "Sadistic bastard," he muttered. "He was fucking with Matt's head."

Brett nodded. "Looks like it."

Page looked stricken. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she buried her face in her hands. Nelson drew her toward him and put his arms around her. When she raised her head, Brett pulled a handful of paper napkins from the dispenser on the table and offered them to her. She used them to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. She sniffed and said, "He's gonna pay, God damn it, he's gonna pay."

"Why?" Nelson asked.

"I don't know," Brett replied. "They weren't trying to kill him, apparently. Murdock thought they were trying to break him."

"Yeah, well, good luck with that," Page said.

* * *

_Author's Note_: According to the United Nations, solitary confinement for more than 15 days is considered torture.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Way Back, Part 2

_Chapter 5 – The Way Back, Part 2_

_Day Two_

_Karen_

Over her morning coffee, Karen scrolled through the news coverage of Matt's return. The article in the _Bulletin_ was typical.

**MISSING HELL'S KITCHEN ATTORNEY **

**FOUND ALIVE AFTER FOUR MONTHS**

Special Report to the _Bulletin_

By T. J. Mason

Missing for almost four months, Hell's Kitchen attorney Matthew Murdock was found alive yesterday in the midtown West Side neighborhood. Private investigator Jessica Jones, who found the missing man, stated only, "Murdock can be a real pain in the [neck], but I'm glad he's alive." She declined further comment, referring all questions either to Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney at the NYPD's 15th Precinct, or to the law firm of Nelson & Murdock. Citing privacy laws, a spokeswoman for Metro-General Hospital declined to release details of Murdock's condition and would say only that he is "resting comfortably" at the facility. The law firm did not respond to several phone calls seeking comment.

A massive, citywide search following Murdock's disappearance failed to uncover any trace of the missing attorney. No one has been charged in his disappearance, and the NYPD has not publicly identified any suspects or persons of interest. Mahoney declined to comment on the specifics of the case, saying, "The investigation is ongoing. We are relieved that Mr. Murdock has been found alive and wish him a speedy recovery from his ordeal." A police source, speaking on condition of anonymity, said Murdock was kidnapped and held incommunicado for the entire four months he was missing. The _Bulletin _has not been able to confirm this report.

Murdock is best known for his role, along with his law partner, Franklin Nelson, in bringing the mobster Wilson Fisk to justice twice. The firm has also been the attorneys of record in several high-profile cases. Murdock's disappearance occurred during the trial of one of them, _Cooper v. Atreus Plastics, Inc._ In that case, the jury returned a seven-figure verdict in favor of the firm's client, Linda Cooper, ten days after the disappearance.

A native of Hell's Kitchen, Murdock first came to public attention at the age of nine, when he lost his eyesight in a freak accident after pushing an elderly man out of the path of an oncoming truck. He is the son of journeyman boxer Jonathan "Battlin' Jack" Murdock, best known for his upset victory over Carl "Crusher" Creel nearly two decades ago. The elder Murdock was found murdered, in an apparent mob hit, shortly after that bout. In spite of his disability, Murdock graduated from Columbia Law School at the top of his class. Following their admission to the bar, he and Nelson established their firm to serve the Hell's Kitchen community. ###

* * *

Her coffee finished, Karen rinsed her mug and set it in the dish drainer. Then she picked up the overnight bag she'd packed and headed to the hospital. Someone needed to stay with Matt when he came home, and she had already decided that person should be her. It made sense: she was basically living with Matt before his disappearance. She didn't expect them to simply pick up where they had left off, four months before. Matt needed to recover first. She didn't kid herself. His recovery might be lengthy and difficult. No matter. She wasn't going anywhere.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Matt was discharged from the hospital. Dr. Orloski cleared Matt medically but insisted on a psych eval before he would let Matt leave. Then, with Matt's permission, the psychiatrist had to talk to Karen and Foggy to explain what they could expect over the next days and weeks. After her came the dietitian with a sheaf of menus and instructions on what Matt should eat to gain weight. All three of them finally fell into a cab, but when they reached Matt's apartment, only Karen got out with him.

"We're good," Karen assured Foggy, leaning in through the window.

"OK," Foggy said. "Call if you need anything."

Matt took hold of her arm as they crossed the sidewalk to the door. He didn't let go until they were in his living room. Then he stood very still, seeming to take in his surroundings. Karen couldn't imagine what he must be feeling in that moment. She didn't move until he did. Presently, he took a deep breath and went to sit down at one end of the couch. She took a seat at the opposite end.

They sat there in silence for what felt like a long time. It wasn't unusual for them to spend time together without speaking . . . before. This felt different. This silence was uncomfortable. At least it was for her. She didn't know what to say. Then she reminded herself that, whatever had happened to him, he was still Matt. But was he? Could anyone go through what he had gone through and come out unchanged? She doubted it.

Eventually, she realized she couldn't spend the rest of the day sitting on the couch. There were things she needed to do. "Um, I'm going to the grocery store," she said hesitantly. "Is there anything you want?"

Matt turned his head to face her. "Not really," he said indifferently, "as long as it isn't hospital food or that crap they fed me, uh, in there."

"You got it." She picked up her handbag. "Be back soon."

When she returned an hour later, she called out, "I'm back," as she walked in the door, even though Matt would have heard her coming. Or so she thought. There was no response. She reached the end of the entry hall and looked around the living room. Matt wasn't there. Her heart stopped for an instant. She dropped the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and went into the bedroom. No Matt. The bathroom door was open. He wasn't there, either. Then her gaze fell on the stairs to the roof. The door at the top of the stairs was open. She ran up the stairs and emerged onto the roof. Matt was standing at the far corner.

"Hey, Karen," he said, turning toward her.

"Hey," she replied. "Everything OK?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to be . . . outside."

Of course he did, after four months trapped in a soundproofed room. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her pounding heart. "Um, OK," she said. "I'm going to make dinner."

"Need a hand?"

"No, I got it," she said. "You can wash up."

"Deal," he said, turning back toward the city below them.

In the kitchen, she busied herself with putting away the groceries and preparing dinner – a stir fry of chicken and vegetables with brown rice – but her mind was only half occupied with her tasks. As she chopped the vegetables for the stir fry, she was more focused on what to do about Matt. It felt like he was lapsing back into his old, bad habits and shutting her out. Before, she would have called him out on it. But that was before. After what he had endured for the past four months, she didn't want to pressure him. He would talk to her when he was ready, she told herself. For now, she decided, she'd leave it up to him.

Dinner was over, the dishes washed. She hadn't planned on holding him to his promise to do the washing up, but he insisted. And maybe it was good for him, doing an everyday chore like that. It would remind him he was no longer in . . . that place.

They resumed their places on the couch. Karen took out her phone to check her messages. Nothing important, just a few work-related reminders. And a message from Foggy, asking if Matt needed anything, if he should come over.

She relayed the message to Matt. He seemed to think about it for a moment, then said, "No, it's OK. Just tell him . . . tell him I'll see him tomorrow."

After she sent the message, they lapsed into silence again. She looked over at Matt, who seemed to have come to a decision. He said, "It's OK, Karen. You don't have to stay."

She stared at him. "You want me to leave?" she asked. He nodded. She swallowed, hard, pushing down against the hurt feeling that was rising inside her. Get a grip, Karen, she told herself. This isn't about you, it's about Matt. Remember what Dr. Cardella said.

That morning, the psychiatrist had told her and Foggy, "I know it sounds wrong, but at times he's going to want to be alone. You need to let him. You need to remember that he was totally alone for four months. In his case, there's also the added element of sensory deprivation. You may think you can imagine what that was like, but you can't. No one can, unless they've experienced it themselves. Coming back to the world – it's a lot for him to get used to. He's going to need to take breaks, from people, from . . . everything."

"OK," Karen told Matt, trying to hide the trembling in her voice. "Call me if you need anything?"

"I will," Matt assured her.

"Is it OK if I call you later?" she asked.

"Sure." Matt smiled, but she could see the effort it cost him.

She picked up her purse and overnight bag and stood up. Matt walked her to the door. "Thanks, Karen," he said as she started toward the stairs.

_Matt_

As soon as the door closed behind Karen, he made his way along the entry hall, trailing his hand along the wall, and sank onto the couch. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. He wanted to feel bad for Karen. He knew she was hurt when he asked her to leave. But all he could feel was relief. The longer she stayed, the more stressed he became. It felt like a vise was tightening around his chest. After living inside his own head for four months, the outside world, and the people in it, were too . . . intrusive. He tried to wrap his mind around what he'd been told: that he was gone for four months. Sometimes it seemed like it was much longer, at other times, it felt much shorter. It didn't feel like four months, whatever that felt like.

There was another reason he needed to be alone. Something he didn't want Karen or Foggy to know about. Not yet. Not until he figured out what was going on. There was something "off" with his senses. Not his senses, exactly. He could hear and smell and taste and feel as well as ever. Or at least he thought so. He sat very still and reached out with his senses. He could hear the sounds of the city, filtering through the windows and walls of his apartment. He breathed a sigh of relief; apparently, the foam of his pallet had blocked enough of the shrieking sound to prevent any real damage to his hearing. He could smell the dust that had accumulated in the corners of the room and the ink and paper of the mail stacked up on the coffee table. He could taste the lentil soup simmering on his downstairs neighbor's stove. And he could feel the movement of the air that leaked in through the old windows and from the roof, and the temperature layers around him. No, it wasn't his senses that were "off." It was his ability to use the information they gave him to "see" the world around him. The months of sensory deprivation had somehow affected that ability. He needed to get it back. Well, he told himself, he had learned how to do it once before. Stick taught him. He could learn it again.

He rose from his place on the couch and sat down cross-legged on the rug. There he meditated for a time. He didn't keep track. Keeping track of time was something else that seemingly was lost to him. Then he rose to his feet and began a circuit of the apartment, snapping his fingers and remembering the lessons Stick taught him, many years before: focus . . . concentrate . . . let it in. He stopped and tilted his head to the right, listening, smelling, feeling. He took a deep breath. It was starting to come back. He hoped.

* * *

_Author's Note:_ This chapter is a little shorter than the others. But no worries. Chapter 6 will be posted soon.


	6. Chapter 6 - The Way Back, Part 3

_Chapter 6 – The Way Back, Part 3_

_Day Three_

_Karen_

Karen knocked on the door, then used her key. She'd called earlier, so Matt would be expecting her. As she walked down the entry hall, she called out, "Breakfast's here." Then she heard a thump and a muffled curse, "God damn it." She reached the end of the hall and looked around the partition. Matt was standing next to the coffee table, rubbing his shin.

"You OK?" she asked.

"Yeah," Matt replied, waving his hand. "It's nothing."

She took the bags with their take-out breakfast into the kitchen and set the food out on the counter. When she finished, she looked up. Matt was sitting on the sofa. He was very still. She took a seat next to him.

"What's going on?" she asked. He took a long time to answer, so long that she thought he wasn't going to. Then he turned his face toward her, looking lost.

"Something's . . . not right," he said.

She thought for a minute. She didn't want to say the wrong thing. "Did that son of a bitch damage your hearing?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don't think so." He frowned. "I can still hear things, and sense things. But sometimes I can't make sense of it, you know, put it all together like I should."

Karen's heart sank. This was not good. Then she had an idea. "Where you were, there wasn't, you know, a lot for your senses to do. Maybe you're just out of practice," she suggested.

"Maybe," he agreed.

"It'll come back," she said, trying to sound confident, even if she wasn't.

"I'm working on it."

Karen didn't know what else to say. And she guessed Matt didn't want to continue the conversation anyway. "Breakfast is ready. I'll make us some coffee," she said, starting to stand up.

Matt stopped her with a hand on her arm. "I got it."

She watched him make his way carefully to the kitchen. It wasn't exactly the same, but it reminded her of the time before she knew his secret, when he would act blind in front of her. It wasn't an act now. Her heart ached for him. Then her hatred for Wilson Fisk, never far from the surface these days, took over. One way or another, he was going to pay.

When the coffee was ready, she carried the food to the table and sat down across from him. She picked at her food, having lost her appetite. Matt didn't do much better. She gave him a worried look. The dietitian at the hospital had stressed how important it was for him to get proper nutrition, but it wasn't that simple. Eating "normal" food was one of the many things he had to get used to, all over again. And, frankly, some of the dietitian's recommendations weren't very appetizing. There was no way Matt was going to drink any of the nutritional supplements on the list. She'd checked out their ingredients at the market yesterday: too many artificial flavors and colors. No worries. She had a few ideas, things that Matt might actually want to eat. She had spent years working in her family's diner, after all.

She wrapped the leftovers and put them in the fridge, hoping Matt would finish them later in the day. Then she picked up her handbag and said, "I need to get to the office. We're meeting with Jessica. She's going to keep looking for evidence on Fisk."

"You'll let me know what she finds out?"

"Definitely." She leaned over and kissed his forehead. "See you later."

"Yeah. See you later."

_Jessica_

Two days after she found Matt, Jessica went back to work on the case. Nelson and Page both thought Fisk was responsible. After they told her what Matt had endured, she was inclined to agree. After meeting with them that morning, she found a vantage point on the roof of the building behind Fisk's apartment and his wife's gallery. She focused her surveillance on the rear entrance at ground level. Around 10:30, a panel truck drove into the alley between the two buildings, followed by a dump truck. Both vehicles stopped behind Fisk's building. Six men, all of them carrying tool boxes or belts, entered the building. She raised her camera and zoomed in on the key pad when one of them entered the code to open the door: 3-6-5-2. She pulled a pen out of her handbag and wrote the numbers on her palm. As soon as the men entered the building, she snapped a photo of the side of the panel truck. The sign there read "JV Construction Company," followed by a contractor's license number and an address in Queens.

She settled down to wait. Soon two of the men came out of the building, pushing a wheeled bin loaded with construction materials: carpeting, something that looked like insulation, pieces of ripped fabric, metal posts. They were doing a demolition job. No, she corrected herself, they were destroying evidence. Good luck with that, assholes, she thought, raising her camera.

When the dump truck was half full, she decided she had what she needed here. Time for a visit to the office of JV Construction. If she could get there before the crew finished, she might find some interesting information in their files.

The address in Queens was a small storefront, with "JV Construction Company" stenciled on the window. To her surprise, the office was open and occupied. Time for a change of plan. She opened the door and went inside. The woman sitting behind the counter looked up and asked, "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Jessica replied, taking a moment to study the other woman. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, medium height and slender, with long, light-brown hair pulled back in a pony tail. She was casually dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt. No jewelry that Jessica could see, other than a wedding band.

Jessica held out her hand. "Pat Welsh," she said, introducing herself.

The woman behind the counter shook her hand. "Vicky Loftis."

"The 'V' in 'JV'?" Jessica guessed.

"That's right. The 'J' is for Jake, my husband. So what can I do for you?"

"My husband, Lou, he's a musician, and we're thinking of building him a studio in our basement. But you know how it is: the houses in our neighborhood are so close together, and the neighbors, they complain when Lou rehearses. So we really need a soundproofed room. Have you ever done something like that?"

"Actually, we have," Vicky replied. "We just completed a soundproofed room a few months ago."

Bingo. "That's great," Jessica said. "I'd really like to talk to the client, you know, like for a reference. Can you give me their name?"

Vicky hesitated. Jessica gave her best impression of an innocent prospective client. "Um, I really shouldn't say this," Vicky began. Yes, you should, Jessica silently urged her. Finally, Vicky continued. "There was something a little odd about that job." Jessica gave her a questioning look. "The client never gave us his full name. He said we could call him 'Francis.' He didn't want to sign a contract, and he paid us in cash. There was a nice bonus, too, for finishing the job ahead of schedule. And the job was in Manhattan, which was weird. We never have jobs there."

Jessica glanced at her watch. "Look at the time," she said. "I really have to go." Vicky's face fell. "I'll just take one of your cards," Jessica told her. "I have to talk to my husband first, but I'm sure he'll want you to give us an estimate. Thanks so much for your time." She picked up a business card and left.

That night, she returned to the alley behind Fisk's building. She entered the code on the key pad. It worked. She crept into the building. The door closed behind her with a soft click. Too soft for anyone else to hear, she hoped. To her right, a flight of stairs led down. She descended into the basement. It was silent and dark, dimly illuminated by a single security light. The glass in the small windows was painted black. Once she was satisfied no one was there, she turned on her flashlight and began to look around. As she expected, the soundproofed room was gone, but it was obvious where it had stood. The holes and scrapes in the concrete floor told her its location. She photographed them, then continued her search. A wall divided another room from the rest of the basement. It looked newly-constructed. She found a door on the side of the room and went in. A row of monitors, all of them dark, was arrayed along the far wall. A laptop sat on the desk beneath them. She hit the touchpad, and one of the monitors lit up, demanding a password. Shit. She didn't have time to try and guess the password. She needed to get out before someone spotted her. If Fisk's people even suspected she'd been there, the evidence on the laptop would be long gone before the cops came calling.

_Matt_

As soon as Karen left him that morning, Matt took up his place on the living room rug and meditated. Or, more accurately, he tried to meditate. Flashes of . . . something kept intruding. No, it wasn't something, it was nothing. It was the sense of absence, the absence of everything, that had surrounded him in that room for all those months. Each flashback triggered his "fight or flight" response. His heart raced as his adrenaline surged. He tried to still his breathing and his mind, but it was no use. Each time he felt himself entering into a meditative state, the feeling of overwhelming absence returned.

He finally gave up and went to the roof. If he couldn't meditate, he would work on re-learning his way of "seeing." The sounds and smells of the city flowed all around him. He immersed himself in them. A slight breeze brought a whiff of the river, a few blocks away. Then he narrowed his focus. He explored his immediate surroundings, locating the air conditioning units and other features of the roof. He could feel the mass of the building next door and how the air flowed around it. He walked to the edge of the roof and measured the gap between his building and the one next to it. For an instant, he toyed with the idea of leaping the gap but decided against it. He trusted his senses' measurement, but he needed to get his strength back before attempting it. Instead, he ran across the roof, testing how quickly he could process the information his senses were giving him. So far, so good.

Back inside his apartment, he went to the fridge. After the tasteless pap that passed for food in his prison, normal food still tasted weird. But he needed to regain his strength. He pulled out the leftovers from breakfast and ate them cold. It wasn't about the taste, it was about the calories.

Finished with his snack, he threw the take-out containers in the trash. As he walked toward the living room, he heard someone climbing the stairs. Sister Maggie. He sighed resignedly. It was only a matter of time before she showed up. He went to the door and opened it as soon as she knocked.

"Hello, Matthew," she said. "May I come in?"

"Of course," he replied, stepping back to admit her.

She walked down the hall and took a seat on the couch. He followed, choosing to sit across from her on one of the chairs.

"How are you, Matthew?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he replied automatically.

"No, you're not," she said briskly. "But you will be."

"If you say so," he muttered.

"I do," she said firmly. "I have faith in you. Do you want to talk about it, what happened?"

"No."

"You'll have to eventually, you know."

"Maybe. But not now."

She hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Will you pray with me?"

"No." He went over to the window and stood there, with his back toward her. He did not want to have this conversation.

Apparently Maggie didn't feel the same way. She persisted. "Why not?"

He turned to face her. "You don't want to know." He frowned and waved his hand, trying to dismiss her.

"Yes, I do."

He frowned. Might as well get it over with, rip off the band-aid. "When I was in that room, God wasn't there. If He wasn't there, he wasn't anywhere. There's no one, nothing, to pray to."

"You can't possibly believe that," Maggie protested.

"I do," he said quietly, hoping the tone of his voice would convey his certainty.

She fell silent, seeming to ponder his words. Then she said, "I know you must feel like God abandoned you, but – "

"No, I don't," he replied heatedly. "You're missing the point. This isn't about me losing my faith because something bad happened to me. I get it, God lets bad things happen to good people. But when I was there, in that hellish room, there was no divine presence. There was _nothing_. And if I believe what I was taught, if God exists, He would be in a place like that. But He wasn't. So don't expect me to pray. Not now. Not ever."

"Oh, Matthew," she breathed. He could sense the salt and moisture of her tears and her attempts to blink them back. She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "You know Paul . . . Father Lantom . . . he witnessed the Rwandan genocide."

"I know."

"He didn't lose his faith."

"And your point is – what?" Matt asked scornfully. "That his faith was stronger than mine? That he was a better man than me?" He scoffed. "Go sell that to someone who's buying."

Maggie silently rose from the couch and took a few steps toward the door. Then she stopped and turned back toward Matt. "I know you've been through a terrible ordeal, Matthew. But it saddens me even more to see that you've lost your way like this. I want to help you . . . if I can."

"You can't."

"I'll pray for you, Matthew."

"Don't waste your time."

She walked out of the apartment without saying another word.

_Day Four_

_Karen_

Jessica was sitting on the brownstone's front stairs when Karen arrived at the office. Foggy got there a few minutes later. They sat around the conference room table as Jessica told them what she had found out and passed around prints of her photos.

"Damn," Foggy said, dropping the last photo onto the table top. "He was there, right under our noses, the whole time."

"Mahoney's, too," Karen pointed out. She fell silent, thinking. Something she saw in one of the photos was bothering her. She started looking through the stack of photographs. "What did you say the name of the construction company was?"

"JV Construction," Jessica told her.

"Why does that name sound familiar?" she asked as she pulled up the _Bulletin_'s web site on her laptop. She scrolled down the page, squinting a little. Then she sat up straight. "Oh, shit," she said, turning the laptop around so Foggy and Jessica could see the screen. "Multiple Fatalities in Truck Explosions," the headline read. According to the article, six men were killed the previous afternoon when a panel truck owned by JV Construction and a dump truck exploded outside a facility in Jamaica, Queens, that collected construction debris. "You didn't see this?" she demanded.

"I was a little busy last night," Jessica reminded her. She looked down, then brushed her hair back out of her face. "Fuck," she muttered. "The wife."

"The what?" Foggy asked.

"The guy's wife, she runs the office for JV Construction. I talked to her yesterday. She knows about the job for Fisk," Jessica explained.

"We have to get her out of there," Karen said. "Fisk doesn't leave loose ends."

"Any ideas?" Jessica asked. They exchanged blank looks. Then Jessica picked up her phone. "I got an idea," she said, walking out of the room to make a call. When she returned, she said, "Luke's taking care of it. While Danny Rand is out of the country, he has access to a couple of Danny's places. He'll get her to one of them. She'll be safe there."

Foggy nodded. "Good. But now we need to make sure Brett Mahoney gets into that building." He leaned back and thought for a minute. "Jessica," he said, "you need to call in an anonymous tip."

"OK," she agreed, "but what about the photos?"

"Have someone drop copies off at the precinct, addressed to him. But only the ones you took outside. We don't want anyone knowing you were inside."

After they worked out the wording of the anonymous tip, Jessica gathered up the photographs and her notes and left.

_Matt_

That morning, Karen left soon after bringing breakfast, saying she had to get to the office to meet Jessica. That was fine with Matt. He had things to do today. As soon as the door closed behind her, he showered quickly, then dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. His gym bag was in the bedroom closet, where he'd left it months ago. He checked its contents and carried it into the living room. He put on his dark glasses and a jacket, picked up his cane and gym bag, and left.

His first stop was a barber shop a few blocks from his apartment. It was the same shop his father had taken him to, when he was a kid. On the way there, there were no collisions, not even any near misses. He didn't really need his cane, except in a few tricky spots where sounds seemed to come from all directions at once. Mostly, he knew where things and people were, and when they moved. As he waited to cross the last street on his route, he gave a sigh of relief. His abilities were coming back.

After a haircut and beard trim, his next stop was Fogwell's Gym. It had been closed for more than two years, but no one had leased the space in all that time. Matt had heard the building had been sold and was expected to be torn down. If that was the case, it was no surprise that no one wanted to sign a lease for the space once occupied by the boxing gym. The broken glass in the door, the glass that he'd broken to enter the gym, had never been replaced. He lifted off the cardboard that covered the hole and reached in to open the door. Some of the training equipment, including a heavy bag, was still there. He set down his gym bag and wrapped his hands. Then he went to work. As his fists connected with the bag, over and over again, the anxiety and dread that had built up over four long months slowly flowed out of him. He had almost forgotten how much he needed this release. Too soon, he was spent. He bowed his head, holding onto the bag and breathing heavily. He was nowhere near fighting shape, but he would be. He had to be, and soon, if he was going to do what he needed to do.

Back at his apartment in the late afternoon, he considered the decision that had come together in his mind over the course of the day. It was pretty simple, really. He now knew the way back from his ordeal. He had to get his life back. All of it. Sitting around his apartment wasn't going to do it. He needed to go back to work, at both of his jobs. And he needed to kill Wilson Fisk. He wasn't going to let Fisk go. Not this time. He went over to the desk, opened his laptop, and placed several orders on the Internet.

_Karen_

Karen smiled to herself as she climbed the stairs to Matt's apartment, lugging two full bags of groceries. She planned to make her mother's chicken casserole for their dinner tonight. A favorite at her family's diner, it was pure comfort food, something both of them needed. It wasn't exactly low calorie, either; that would be good for Matt, if not for her. She reached the top of the stairs and knocked on Matt's door, then used her key to enter. Matt wasn't there. Unlike yesterday, she didn't panic. She set the groceries down on the kitchen counter and headed for the roof. He was there, sitting cross-legged on a mat in the middle of the roof. Not wanting to interrupt his meditation, she stepped back, but he had already noticed her.

He raised his head and said, "Hey, Karen."

"Hey. Sorry to interrupt you."

"It's OK," he told her. "You can interrupt me any time."

When he raised his head, she noticed his hair and beard had been trimmed. "I guess I don't have to ask what you did today. I like the beard . . . I think."

He gave her a little smile and stroked his beard. "You think?"

"Yeah, it looks good." She paused for a moment, then said, "I'm, uh, I'm just going to make us some dinner." She turned and took a step toward the stairway door.

"Need some help?"

"No, I got it," she said over her shoulder, "but you can keep me company if you want."

He got to his feet, rolled up the mat, and followed her downstairs.

In the kitchen, he stood off to one side, leaning against the back counter while she worked. As she assembled the casserole, she recounted what Jessica had found out. When she finished her report, he observed, "Well, we always knew it was Fisk."

"Yes, but now we'll have proof. Based on what Jessica discovered, Mahoney can get a search warrant and nail Fisk for everything . . . everything he did to you. Not to mention those poor construction workers he blew up."

"Yeah." She glanced over at Matt. His expression was grim. "The wife's safe?" he asked.

"Yes. Jessica and Luke have that covered."

"Good." He walked over to the fridge and took out two bottles of beer. He held one out to her. "Want one?"

"In a minute. I'm almost done here."

He replaced one of the bottles in the fridge, then opened the other one and drank. When the bottle was half empty, he made his way into the living room and sat down on the couch. She noticed he was moving around more confidently. Once the casserole was in the oven, Karen grabbed a bottle of beer for herself and sat next to him. He seemed to be thinking, hard. She stayed silent, sipping beer and waiting for him to speak. Her bottle was half empty before he turned to her and said, "I'm sorry, Karen."

She almost dropped the bottle. "_You're_ sorry?"

He nodded. "Yes, for everything I've . . . everything you've been through, these past months."

She rolled her eyes. Of course he was apologizing, the idiot. Everything was always his fault. The worst part was that he believed it. It would be laughable if it wasn't so sad. She said, as firmly as she could, "It wasn't your fault, Matt. None of it."

He shook his head, frowning. "No, I was careless, I never should've let Fisk's men grab me. That's on me."

"Matt, _please._ Don't do this to yourself. An evil man kidnapped you, imprisoned you, and tortured you, and that's _your_ fault? Give me a break. No, give yourself a break."

"But you and Foggy – " he began.

She didn't let him finish. "Foggy and I love you. Sometimes it's hard, sometimes it's painful. Yes, it hurt, it hurt every single day, while you were gone, not knowing what happened to you, to someone we love. But we chose that, both of us. We chose to be your friends. That's on us, not you."

The kitchen timer beeped. "Casserole's almost ready," she said as she stood up to go to the kitchen. "Time to make the salad." She left Matt on the couch, hoping he would at least think about what she'd said.

After dinner, she opened her laptop to write up her notes from that afternoon's interview. Best to do it while it was fresh in her mind. At first, the witness had seemed credible, but as the interview progressed, she began to think there was something "off" about him, especially when he was talking about his interactions with their client. She needed to look into him some more. Matt was at his desk, reviewing one of the files he'd asked her to bring with her.

Her summary completed, Karen added a few notes about the further investigation she needed to do, then closed her laptop. She glanced at Matt. He looked tired, his head propped up on one hand as he listened to the screen reader. Time to go, she thought.

"Hey," she said. Matt raised his head and turned his face toward her. "I should be heading home."

"You could stay," he said, making it sound like a question. "If you want to, I mean."

She smiled. "I'd like that," she told him.

"Good. I'm almost finished here," he said, gesturing toward his computer.

She went into the kitchen and brewed a pot of herbal tea. She wasn't sure what his request meant or what he wanted from her. Only a few days ago, he couldn't be with other people, not even her, for more than a few hours. It's progress, she told herself. She wasn't going to push him. Maybe he simply needed to know he was no longer alone.

Sometime in the middle of the night, she awoke from a sound sleep. Matt was sitting up next to her. She sat up and turned on the lamp on her side of the bed. He was awake, his eyes wide open. His eyes had an emptiness to them, as if he was somewhere else. It was the same emptiness she'd seen in his eyes when she first visited him in the hospital. He was turning his head frantically from side to side, as if he was searching for something. His breath was coming in shuddering gasps. Between breaths, he was muttering, "No, no, no." She couldn't hear his heartbeat, but she was sure his heart was pounding.

"Matt," she whispered, gently squeezing his shoulder.

He flinched at her touch, then seemed to settle a little. His breathing slowed. "Karen?"

"I'm here, it's OK. You had a bad dream."

"I was back . . . there," he said.

He didn't have to explain where "there" was. God damn you to hell, Wilson Fisk. "You're not there now," she assured him. "You're here, with me. It's gone. They tore it down." She ran her hand across his forehead and down his cheek. She blinked back tears. Don't cry, damn it, she told herself, he'll know.

"Do you think you can go back to sleep?" she asked.

He frowned. "I don't know. I don't want to . . . to go back there."

She remembered what Sister Maggie had told her, about what she did when Matt had nightmares as a boy. Now she did the same thing. She took hold of his hand. "I'm staying right here, and so are you."

It seemed to work. He took a couple of slow, deep breaths, then lay down, without letting go of her hand. She held on until she was sure he was asleep. Then she finally allowed herself to sleep. She had to be up early tomorrow, to do an interview before the witness left for work.


	7. Chapter 7 - The Way Back, Part 4

_Chapter 7 – The Way Back, Part 4_

_Day Five_

_Foggy_

Foggy got to the office early. He still had to prepare for a deposition, later in the day. Karen was out of the office, interviewing a witness in a new case he'd just taken last week. It was just after 9 a.m. when he was startled to hear the front door open. Maybe a walk-in; there were no appointments scheduled. He looked up from his laptop and saw Matt walking into the office. He even looked like Matt. He'd had his hair cut and his beard trimmed. He was dressed in a business suit and carried a white cane. His dark glasses concealed the thinness of his face and the circles under his eyes.

Foggy jumped to his feet. "Matt!" he exclaimed. "What're you doing here?"

"Last time I checked, this was our office," he replied, "unless you dissolved our partnership while I was . . . away."

"Wh-what? N-no, uh, of course not," Foggy stammered. "I'm just surprised to see you here, that's all. You didn't say anything about coming back to work, when we talked yesterday. Are you sure you should be here? It's only been a few days. I mean, shouldn't you be at home? Don't you need to rest?"

"Damn it, Fog," Matt snapped, "don't treat me like I'm made of glass. You know I hate that." Then he softened his tone. "I think I can handle sitting at a desk and reading files."

"OK," Foggy said. "If you're sure it won't be, you know, too much. After, you know, what you've been through."

Matt sighed heavily and sat down on the reception room couch, motioning for Foggy to sit next to him. When Foggy took a seat, Matt turned toward him. "After . . . after what happened, I need to get my life back. I can't do that sitting in my apartment. I need to do this, OK?"

Foggy nodded. "Yeah, I get it."

He remembered something Dr. Cardella, the psychiatrist, told them a few days ago. "People react differently to traumatic experiences like those Matthew has been through," she said. "Each person's path to recovery is different, but being able to feel in control of one's life again is often an important part of it."

Then something occurred to him. "When you say get your life back, do you mean all of it?" he asked.

"Yes," Matt replied firmly, his tone of voice saying there was no room for discussion.

Foggy got the message. And, really, he knew the answer before he asked. Matt wasn't going to give up being Daredevil. Not now. Foggy sighed resignedly. Apparently Daredevil was a part of the healing process, too.

_Day Six_

_Brett_

Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney paused the video. Oh, shit. This was bad. He had seen a lot in his career, but this made him sick to his stomach. At least he didn't have to decide whether to show it to Murdock. Even if he could see it, he didn't need to. He was there. It was definitely him, in that room. For four months. Murdock could be a huge pain in the ass, but he didn't deserve that. No one did.

Brett stared at the screen for several minutes, then came to a decision. He picked up his phone to call Nelson.

"Hey, Brett," Nelson answered. "What's up?"

"Our tech people finally got past the password on the laptop we seized from Fisk's basement," Brett told him. "There are video files. A lot of them."

"You mean videos of Matt?"

"Yeah," Brett confirmed. He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "I shouldn't do this. You can't tell anyone. But if you want to see the videos, you can."

Nelson didn't answer right away. Finally, he said, "I think we have to see them. We need to understand what he went through."

"OK," Brett said, "but be warned. It's bad."

"I get it. When do you want us to be there?"

"Never," Brett replied, "I'll bring you a flash drive."

An hour later, Brett was sitting in the living room of Nelson's apartment, watching as Nelson, Page, and Nelson's fiancée, Marci Stahl, viewed one of the video files. It appeared to be from late in Murdock's captivity. Nelson sat there stone-faced as the video played. Stahl looked horrified. Karen was crying silently, tears streaming down her cheeks. When the video ended, Brett offered her a tissue. She gave him a surprised look, as if she hadn't noticed her tears, but then she took the tissue and used it to wipe her eyes and face. She sniffed, then said in a low voice, "I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch."

"Uh, Karen," Foggy cautioned her, "not a good idea to threaten to kill someone in front of an officer of the law."

"I don't care."

Brett put his hands over his ears. "Sorry, what did you say?"

Foggy didn't answer him. Instead, he asked, "Are all of them like this?"

"The ones I've seen, pretty much."

"What I don't understand," Foggy said, thinking out loud, "is why Fisk would keep the videos. Matt can't testify Fisk was behind the kidnapping. The videos are the only evidence connecting him to what happened to Matt."

"He wanted to watch them and gloat, the sick bastard," Karen said.

"Yeah," Foggy agreed, "not to mention arrogant. The son of a bitch still thinks he's above the law."

"What are you going to do?" Karen asked, turning to address Brett.

"With the videos, we have enough evidence to take the case to the DA," Brett told her.

"No!" she exclaimed. "You can't!" Brett looked a question at her. "Fisk knows, about Matt, about Daredevil," she explained. "If he's charged, he'll tell the world."

"That's not exactly a legal defense," Marci pointed out.

"Doesn't matter," Foggy replied. "It's payback. Not to mention that Matt could end up in prison."

Damn, Brett thought, they were right. But he was an officer of the law. It was his job to stop criminals. Including vigilantes – even Daredevil. He'd already made too many compromises. "You're right," he said aloud, keeping his reservations to himself. "I'm not making any promises, but I'll wait until Fisk's trial is over to decide about filing new charges. If he's convicted again, he's going away for a long time, probably for the rest of his life. Then we'll decide, depending on how it goes."

"Thanks, Brett," Foggy said.

"Don't thank me yet," Brett cautioned him.

_Karen_

After dinner, Karen sat down next to Matt on the couch. She didn't want to, but she had to tell him about the videos. She turned toward him and took both of his hands in hers. "There's something I have to tell you," she began. He turned toward her, his eyebrows raised quizzically. "You know Brett got a search warrant for Fisk's building based on what Jessica found out." He nodded. "Damn," she said, "this is hard."

"Just tell me," he said quietly.

"They found a room with a wall of monitors and . . . and a laptop with video files, a lot of them."

"Videos of me," he said. She nodded. "So he _was_ watching."

She swallowed hard. "Looks like it."

"Did you see them?" he asked.

"A few of them, not all."

"I see." She knew he was back there, in the room she'd seen on the screen. The emptiness in his eyes said it all. She had to look away.

He pulled his hands from her grasp and got to his feet. As he started toward the stairs to the roof, she asked him, "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No." He ascended the stairs and disappeared from her view.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs she knew were coming. She dashed into the bathroom and turned on the water. She left it running, hoping Matt couldn't hear her.

_Matt_

He paced back and forth across the roof, muttering, "I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch," over and over, until he felt his rage start to dissipate. But along with his rage, he also felt shame, shame that Karen and Foggy and Mahoney had seen him like that, the way he was in that room, helpless, useless. Is that how they would see him from now on? Maybe, maybe not, but they would feel pity, and that, above all, he could not accept. That was on Fisk, too.

Eventually, he stopped pacing and sat down with his back against one of the air conditioning units. Slowly, in the chilly night air, the turmoil in his mind cleared, and he knew what he had to do. Fisk surely believed he had broken Matt – and Daredevil. First, he would show Fisk that he was wrong. When that message had been delivered, then he would kill Wilson Fisk.

_Day 7_

_Karen_

"God damn it!" Matt slammed his coffee cup down on the kitchen counter. Coffee flew out of the cup. Karen stepped out of the bathroom, still in her bathrobe and drying her hair with a towel, in time to hear his curse and see coffee spilling on the counter. He tore off a length of paper towel and mopped up the spilled coffee, then dried his hands.

"You want to tell me what that was about?" she asked when she was standing next to him.

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

"Sure you are," she said. "If it's 'nothing,' how come you were tossing and turning all night?"

Carrying the now half full coffee cup, he turned his back on her and sat down at the table. She poured a cup of coffee for herself and sat opposite him. If he was going to be like that, she would simply wait him out. It took until both of their cups were empty, but it eventually worked.

"I am such an idiot," he said.

"Um, OK," she replied. "But you know we already knew that, right?" When he didn't respond, she continued. "So why are we talking about this now?"

He was silent, his head bowed, for several minutes. Then he seemed to reach a decision. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, then raised his head and said, "I had him, Fisk, in his penthouse, that night. I should have killed him then. I was a fool not to kill him when I had the chance. I'm not going to make that mistake again."

"If you were wrong, then so was I," she said. "I didn't want you to kill him, not then. You listened to me, and you didn't kill him."

"And that turned out so well," he said bitterly. "I thought he would win if I killed him, that killing him would destroy who I am. But all I did was give him another chance to try to destroy me. God, I am so stupid." He walked over to the window and stood with his back to her.

"What are you saying, Matt?" she asked.

"I'm gonna kill Fisk," he declared.

Her heart sank, even though she knew the answer before he spoke. "But why?" she asked.

He spun around. "You have to ask that?" he demanded angrily.

"No, what . . . that's not, um, I mean, I meant," she stammered, taken aback at his anger. She took a moment to regain her composure, then continued. "I wasn't asking why you want him dead. I know that. But what you just said . . . about how killing Fisk would destroy who you are. Why would you let him do that?"

"Maybe he already has."

She stared at him in shock. She didn't want to believe it. She couldn't. But could anyone go through what he had gone through and come out whole? What had Matt lost, trapped in that room for four months? She finally found her voice. "If you do this – " she began.

He interrupted her. "There's no 'if'," he said, "I'm doing it."

"But how do you know this – killing Fisk – is what God wants?"

"That's irrelevant. God has left the building. Or he was never here to begin with."

Oh, no. She now thought she knew what Matt had lost in that room. She didn't share Matt's faith, but she knew how important it was to him. "Was." Past tense. A profound sadness gripped her heart. If she was right, then Fisk really had destroyed something that made Matt who he was. She didn't think it was possible to hate Fisk any more than she already did, but apparently it was. There had to be something she could do. Then she had an idea. "Have you talked to Sister Maggie since you've been back?" she asked hesitantly.

He came back to the table and stood facing her. "Yes," he replied. "She came to see me. I don't think she liked what I had to say." He turned and started walking toward the bedroom. "We're gonna be late for work," he said. "Better get ready."

Karen stayed where she was for a few minutes, considering her options. If Matt was determined to kill Fisk, she doubted she could stop him. And he _was_ determined, she was sure of that. Where did that leave her? Having no answer, she went into the bedroom to finish getting ready for work.

Karen was the first to get home that evening. She had spent the afternoon at the offices of the County Clerk and the Secretary of State, researching the corporate defendant in one of their cases, trying to pierce the corporate veil. Over the course of the day, she had come to a decision. Before, when Matt was intent on killing Fisk, she and Foggy had feared they would lose him forever, if he succeeded. Now she thought she had found a way to prevent that from happening: if she couldn't stop him, she would help him kill Fisk. She knew the price he would pay if he succeeded in killing Fisk. She would share that burden. And maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to stop him. All she had to do was to persuade Matt to let her help him.

She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. She sat on the couch, sipping wine and organizing her thoughts. Her glass was almost empty by the time Matt arrived.

He greeted her as usual. "Hey, Karen."

"Hey," she replied.

He went to his desk and set down his briefcase, then took off his tie and jacket and draped them over the back of the chair. While he was doing that, she went to the kitchen and poured him a glass of wine, refilling her own glass at the same time. She took both glasses back to the living room and set them on the coffee table, then sat down on the couch. When he sat down next to her, she handed him a glass. He took it and drank. They both sat silently for a few minutes. Then she reached out and rubbed the back of his neck.

"You look tired," she commented. "Hard day?"

"Not really. Just, uh, getting back into things, you know."

"Yeah," she whispered. She took a sip of her wine. Might as well get it over with, she told herself. "About what we were talking about, this morning – "

That was as far as he let her get. "I don't want to talk about it," he said crossly.

"You don't have to talk. Just hear me out. _Please._"

"It won't change anything."

"I know."

"OK," he said, "I'll listen."

"If you're determined to kill Fisk – " she began.

"I am."

"I know," she replied. "And I know I can't stop you. But I can help you."

"Karen, no – "

"You said you'd listen," she interrupted. "So listen. I want Fisk dead as much as you do. You know that." Matt nodded. "Do you even have a plan?" she asked.

"Not really," he admitted. "I mean, just get to him and take him out. Whatever it takes."

"I think you're gonna need a little more than that. Have you even considered where to do it?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It will have to be in the apartment in the gallery building. Too much security at the courthouse. And he always travels in a motorcade, so getting at him when he's going to and from court is out."

"But how are you going to get into the building?"

"The same way Jessica did, through the basement. She gave you the door code, right?"

Karen nodded. "Yeah, that could work. If they haven't changed the code. And if they have?"

"There has to be a way to get past it, or another way in."

"I can help with that," Karen told him, "checking out the building, the security measures, things like that. And if you need a getaway car, well, I'm your driver." The last part actually elicited a half-smile from Matt. "So – we work together?"

He shrugged. "OK. I guess," he said reluctantly. "But if we do this, we can't tell Foggy. You know what he'd say."

She nodded. "Agreed." Maybe Matt wasn't totally on board with her idea, but it was a start. She'd take what she could get. She stood up and took her wine glass to the kitchen. "You coming, Murdock?" she asked. "It's your turn to cook."

_Day 8_

_Karen_

Karen was out of the office all day, doing surveillance on the shifty witness she'd interviewed several days before. After she discovered the reason for his evasiveness, she ended the surveillance. By that time, it was early evening, so she went straight to Matt's apartment. He was already there. She found him sitting on the floor, opening several packages that had been delivered during the day. They contained two pairs of black tactical pants, four black compression shirts, wrist and hand wraps, protective arm pads, gloves, and a pair of black boots.

"What the hell, Matt?" she asked as she sat down in the chair nearest him.

"It's time for Daredevil to show up again," he answered her, matter-of-factly. "People have to know he's back."

"By 'people' you mean Fisk, don't you?"

He nodded. "As long as I stay under the radar, he'll think he's won, that he broke me. I have to show him that he didn't."

"But he'll go ballistic," Karen objected.

"You mean, like when you provoked him?" he pointed out.

"Yeah. And that turned out so well," she retorted sarcastically. Then she saw the look of pain on Matt's face. Father Lantom. "Oh, Matt, I am so sorry. I didn't mean – "

"Yes, you did," he cut her off, "and you're right. But we're targets, all of us, either way."

"But it's too soon," she protested. "It's no secret you were missing, and so was Daredevil. If Daredevil shows up a few days after Matt Murdock is found, someone will connect the dots."

"No," he said firmly, "they won't. And if they do, I'll just deny it. No one will believe it, anyway."

"But are you ready?" she asked.

"No. But I have to do this." She didn't bother trying to change his mind. This was an argument she wasn't going to win.

_Matt_

Matt stood on the roof of his building, a little winded from the climb up the fire escape. While he caught his breath, he reflected on his first night back as Daredevil: a couple of Hell's Kitchen residents who didn't become victims, and a couple of petty criminals taken off the streets. A good night. The first of many, he hoped. He'd enjoyed it, that feeling when his fist connected with the jaw of a wrongdoer and he smelled the criminal's blood. He felt like himself again, for the first time since his return. Smiling, he crossed the roof to the stairwell door.

He paused at the top of the stairs and took off his mask. Karen was sitting on the couch. She had waited up for him. She didn't always wait up for him; after all, she had her own work and needed sleep. But he knew she would stay up until he came home tonight. He felt a sudden rush of affection for her. And maybe something else was stirring inside him. As he descended the stairs, Karen looked up, then rose from the couch to greet him. Automatically, he took her in his arms and kissed her. He sensed her surprise. It was another return to something normal in their lives – or what passed for "normal," for them.

"You're back early," she said.

"Yes."

"You're OK?"

"Yeah, I'm good," he assured her."Just a little tired."

"How'd it go?"

"Good. Good. Managed to help a few people."

He took off his gloves and put them on the coffee table, along with his mask. When he sat down on the couch, Karen sat next to him, instead of at the far end, where she usually sat since his return. A little tentatively, he put his arm around her. She moved closer and put her head on his shoulder. After a few minutes, he sensed she was beginning to doze off. He stood up, careful not to wake her. He stripped off his black garments and stepped into the shower. It felt good to wash off the grime of the city and the blood of the petty criminals he'd stopped. There wasn't much of his own blood tonight. Karen would be happy about that.

When he was clean and dry, he padded over to the couch and lifted her into his arms. She awoke at his touch. He carried her to the bed and put her down gently, then slipped into bed beside her. He hadn't bothered to put on the sweat pants he usually wore to bed. He was sure she noticed, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she simply gave his hand a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure him. He reached out for her and drew her toward him, something he hadn't done in the few nights they'd spent together since his return. She turned toward him, and he kissed her. He could sense her response, a mixture of surprise and pleasure. He held her, breathing deeply and slowly. After the months of sensory deprivation, he was drowning in sensations: the sound of her heartbeat and breathing, her scent, the taste of her, the touch of her hand caressing his cheek. Oh, God, he had missed this. He had missed Karen every single day, his longing to be with her a deep, physical pain that made his captivity even more unbearable. All he could do then was suppress his desires, pushing them down as far as they would go. Now he made love to her with a passion bordering on desperation, as if he was trying to make up all at once for the months of separation. Then it was over, too quickly. He lay beside her, trying to calm his breathing and heartbeat.

When he caught his breath, he said, "Sorry about that."

Karen raised herself up on one arm and looked down at him. "You have nothing to apologize for. You're alive, you're here, _we're_ here. Everything else is just the icing on the cake." She leaned down and kissed him. "Don't ever forget that."


	8. Chapter 8 - The Way Back, Part 5

_Chapter 8 – The Way Back, Part 5_

_Day 9_

**DAREDEVIL RETURNS**

Special Report to the _Bulletin_

By T. J. Mason

After an absence of more than four months, Hell's Kitchen's own vigilante, Daredevil, has returned to the West Side neighborhood's streets. According to sources at the NYPD's 15th Precinct, speaking on condition of anonymity, two residents of Hell's Kitchen reported being rescued by Daredevil last night. One of them, a 23-year-old woman, was being stalked by her ex-boyfriend when Daredevil interrupted an apparent attempt to abduct and rape her. The second, a 38-year-old man, was leaving a club in the early morning hours when he was accosted by a man wielding a knife. Daredevil intervened and stopped the mugging in progress. Both suspects are now in custody.

_Bulletin_ readers, what do you think of Daredevil's return? Is he a help or hindrance to law enforcement in Hell's Kitchen? Whatever your opinion, be sure to report any Daredevil sightings on our tip line: (646) 555-DARE (3273). ###

_Fisk_

"Daredevil returns? _Daredevil returns_?" Fisk roared, slamming the newspaper down on the table. Then he swept it, along with everything on the tabletop in front of him – plates, omelettes, cups, glasses, and cutlery – onto the floor. His gaze fell on the unfortunate aide who had just delivered the newspaper. Before the man could escape, Fisk grabbed his right arm and twisted it viciously. Bones broke with a sickening crunch. The man screamed and sank to his knees. Yelling wordlessly, Fisk raised his arms above his head, his hands clasped together in a single fist, to deliver a killing blow.

"_Wilson! Stop! Please!"_ Vanessa cried. Fisk dropped his arms and turned to face her. "He's just the messenger. It's not his fault," she reminded him.

He realized she was right. She always knew how to get through to him, like no one else could. He took a deep breath and gestured toward the injured man. "Get out!" he ordered. The aide fled.

Once they were alone, Vanessa approached him. She reached out and massaged his neck and shoulders. He felt the tension there fade away.

"It has to be an imposter," she said as she studied the photograph accompanying the article in her copy of the newspaper. It looked like a frame from a low-quality security camera. "There's no way to identify him from this photo," she said, "but it can't possibly be Murdock. You know the condition he was in when we put him out on the street."

Fisk lowered his head and considered this for a moment. She was probably right, but . . . . "You don't know Murdock like I do. I know what he's capable of."

"Maybe," she conceded, "but the Murdock you knew isn't the man we put on the street last week. We both saw him. He was broken. He's never coming back, not from that. And certainly not this soon."

Fisk fell silent as he ran through the possibilities. Then he shook his head. "It doesn't matter if it's Murdock or some imposter trying to continue his work. He's a threat. We need to neutralize it."

Vanessa nodded. "I'll tell Francis," she said.

_Matt_

Avoiding the security cameras, Matt made his way along the alley behind Fisk's building. Karen wanted to come with him for this reconnaissance, but he convinced her it was better if he did this alone. "Less chance of being caught if there's only one of us," he'd told her. That was true, as far as it went, but it wasn't the whole story. If he managed to get to Fisk, he was going kill him, tonight. In spite of their agreement, he didn't want Karen to be a part of that.

When he reached the back door, he entered the code Jessica had given Karen: 3-6-5-2. It still worked. Pretty sloppy, he thought, not changing it after the construction workers and cops had been there. But a good sign for his mission. He closed the door softly behind him and descended the stairs to the basement. He emerged from the stairwell into the open space where the room, his prison, had stood. As he crossed the basement floor, he noticed the holes in the concrete where the structure had been anchored. Suddenly, he felt the walls of the room rising around him, imprisoning him again. His adrenaline spiked, and his heart began to pound. He couldn't catch his breath. He wanted nothing more than to bolt, to get away from this place, as fast as he could. He even turned and took several steps toward the stairs. Get a grip, he told himself. The room was gone. Jessica saw it being taken out of the building, in pieces. Gradually, he slowed his racing heart and caught his breath.

He continued his exploration of the basement. There was a room on his left. It must have been the video room. He went inside it and found only an empty desk, a couple of chairs, some brackets on the wall that had held the monitors, and a few scattered cables, now connected to nothing. It sickened him to think that Fisk had been watching him, the whole time. And now that the cops had the videos, other people, strangers, were looking at images of him there, in that room, judging him, pitying him. His stomach turned at the thought. It was bad enough that Karen and Foggy had seen some of them.

At the far end of the room, he encountered another locked door, apparently leading to the stairs that would take him to the rest of the building. It, too, had a keypad. He tried the same code he'd used for the outside door. No dice. He hadn't really expected it to work. He took off one of his gloves and ran his hand over the lock, inspecting it. There was only a keypad. His lock-picking skills were no use here. He needed to disable the keypad, but that was something he couldn't do himself. Even his senses couldn't pick up the colors of the wires in the unit. No problem. He knew someone who could help.

Now he needed to get out, and quickly, in case someone had noticed his attempt to open the stairwell door. There was nothing more he could do tonight, anyway. He made his way across the basement, giving a wide berth to the area where the room had stood, and left the building.

_Day 10_

_Jessica_

Jessica was napping at her desk when a sharp knock on her office door woke her. "Go away," she called out. It was too early to deal with . . . whoever it was. The knocking resumed, louder this time. She pushed herself up from her chair and shuffled toward the door. "What fresh hell is this?" she grumbled, unwittingly channeling Dorothy Parker. When she got there and looked through the wavy glass, she had a pretty good idea who her visitor was. "Oh, hell," she thought, opening the door.

Murdock stepped in, a silly smirk on his face. "Good to see you, too, Jessica," he said. She followed him into the office, where he took a seat on one of the chairs facing her desk. He was dressed in his full lawyer get-up, minus the tie, and his hair and beard had been trimmed. A definite improvement over the last time she'd seen him, at the hospital. She had to admit that he cleaned up nicely.

She sighed heavily, not sure she wanted to know the answer to the question she was about to ask. "What's up, Murdock?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I, um, I wanted to thank you, you know, for finding me."

"You're welcome," she replied. "But to be honest, it was just dumb luck. I was actually working another case at the time."

He shrugged. "Whatever."

"You should know," Jessica went on, "that they never gave up looking for you – Nelson, Page, and whatshisname, that detective, Mahoney."

"No, they wouldn't," Matt agreed quietly.

"I don't know what they see in an asshole like you," she observed.

"Neither do I."

Time to change the subject. "Enough with the chit chat. Why are you really here, Murdock?"

"I need your help."

OK. "With what?"

"Getting past a security system."

"What kind?"

"Doors with keypads. I can't disable them myself."

No, he wouldn't be able to do that, even with his fancy senses. That was a job that required actual eyesight. "Where are these doors, exactly?" she asked.

"Wilson Fisk's building."

"And why do you need to get in there?"

"I'm going to kill Fisk," Murdock stated flatly.

Idiot. She glared at him, not caring that he couldn't see it. Her silence would send the same message. After a suitable interval, long enough to drive her point home, she said, "Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"No."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"C'mon, Jessica, you know what Fisk's done. And not only to me."

"I'm not saying you don't have good reasons to want him dead. I'm just saying you don't have to be the one to do it. And what if you get caught?"

"I won't," he replied smugly.

"You can't be sure of that. I seem to recall you just got out of a prison. Do you really want to go back to one, and for far longer?"

"If that's what it takes."

"Jesus, Murdock," she said, shaking her head. She opened the desk drawer on her right and took out the bottle she kept there. She took a long drink, then offered the bottle to Murdock. When he shook his head, she took another drink and replaced the cap before returning the bottle to the drawer. Thus fortified, she said, "No."

"No?"

"No. As in, no, I'm not going to help you."

"You can't stop me," Murdock asserted.

"Maybe not," she agreed, "but I don't have to help you be a fucking idiot, either. I let you throw your life away once. I'm not doing that again."

He seemed to consider her words for a moment, then got to his feet. "Thanks for nothin', Jones," he said before he turned and stalked out of the apartment.

Jessica sat at her desk, rubbing her forehead, for several minutes. She felt a headache coming on. She opened the drawer where she kept her bottle.

_Matt_

Matt stood at the corner of his roof, taking in the sounds of the city. He was still seething over Jessica's refusal to help him get to Fisk, but he'd find a way in, with or without her help.

At the same time, he was thinking back on his day at the office. It had been a good day, the kind of day that reminded him why he became a lawyer in the first place. He'd met with a new client, and at the end of the meeting, he'd been able to assure her that, in her case, the law was on her side and, yes, he and Foggy would be able to help her. That wasn't always the case, for the people who lived in Hell's Kitchen. Too often, the law didn't serve them. Instead, it served the wealthy and well-connected who could bend the law in their favor.

When the law couldn't help the people of Hell's Kitchen, there was Daredevil. That was why he was on the roof, after midnight, alert for trouble in the Kitchen. Soon, he heard it: a man, yelling that he was being mugged, a couple of blocks away. Matt took off across the rooftops, finally descending to the ground in the alley where the yelling had originated. Too late, he recognized his mistake. This was no mugging; six men were waiting for him. It was a trap, no doubt set by Fisk. As he readied himself, mentally and physically, to fight his way out, he heard one of them say, "Remember, the boss says we gotta take him alive." That was not reassuring. The room where he was imprisoned was gone, but Fisk would have something even worse in store for him.

One of the men detached himself from the group and came at him. Matt leaped and unleashed a kick with his right foot, striking the center of the man's chest. He collapsed to the ground, struggling to breathe. A second man approached. Was this the strategy – to wear him down by making him fight them one at a time? He could see Fisk's hand behind it; he would know Matt would not be at full strength, so soon after his return. The second man charged recklessly and swung wildly. Matt dodged the blow and grabbed the man's arm, twisting it up behind his back until he heard the sound of bones breaking. He kicked the backs of the man's knees, and he crumpled to the ground.

As the third man approached, Matt sensed a greater threat behind him. Another man, the one who had spoken and seemed to be the leader of the group, had a hypodermic syringe hidden in his hand. That was how Fisk had gotten him, before. Matt ignored the third man and whirled toward the leader, who wasn't prepared for his attack. Matt grabbed the hand holding the syringe and twisted, hard. Small bones crunched, and the syringe fell to the ground, as did the leader. Matt crushed the syringe under his boot. The third man came at Matt from behind. Matt repelled him with an elbow to the ribs, then turned and took him down with a flurry of punches to the head.

Seeing four of their number on the ground, while Matt was still standing, the last two men abandoned the plan and bull-rushed Matt together. He sidestepped one of them and used the other man's momentum to flip him and slam him into the ground. Only one man remained standing, but Matt could feel himself tiring. He needed to finish off this last opponent quickly, but the man wouldn't cooperate. Matt's punches lacked their usual power, and his opponent wobbled but didn't go down. Then he pulled out a knife. Matt jumped back to evade it. The knife missed its target, but it was keeping Matt too far away from his opponent to do any damage. With a howl of frustration, Matt twisted and kicked out with his left foot. The knife slashed his thigh, but his boot connected solidly with the side of the man's face. He went down. Matt straddled him and let the devil out, punching him in the head until his face was a bloody mess. He gave him a final kick in the ribs and sprinted out of the alley.

Back on his own rooftop, Matt took several minutes to catch his breath. He was exhausted, but he smiled with satisfaction as he imagined the scene when the men reported their failure to Fisk. If they were smart, he thought, there would be no report. They would get as far away from Fisk as they could, as fast as they could. Limping slightly, he made his way across the roof to the stairs, hoping Karen was still awake to patch up the slash on his leg.


	9. Chapter 9 - The Way Back, Part 6

_Chapter 9 – The Way Back, Part 6_

_Day 12_

_Matt_

A little after midnight, Matt climbed the fire escape to the roof of the building next door to Fisk's. There was only a narrow gap between the two buildings. He leaped across it easily, landing solidly on the roof of Fisk's building. Karen had done a reconnaissance of the building during the day, and this appeared to be their best chance of finding a way in. There were only three other entrances to the building: the back door, the gallery entrance, and a side door opening into an elevator lobby and the stairs to the upper floors where the apartment was located. The gallery entrance and side door both faced the street, too exposed for a surreptitious entry. All of the windows on the first two floors were barred. The building was newer than most in Hell's Kitchen and had no fire escapes. He might be able to get in through one of the upper windows by rappelling down from the roof, but as Karen had pointed out, the windows probably had alarms. Alarms could be bypassed, he reminded himself. That might be his only option if he couldn't get in from the roof. And, unlike a keypad, getting past a window sensor was something he could do himself. He didn't need anyone's help.

He strode across the roof to the door and took off his glove to examine the lock. Damn. It, too, had a keypad. Thinking that maybe he'd get lucky, for once, he tried the code that worked on the back door. No such luck. Then he tried several other combinations of numbers that he and Karen came up with while brainstorming that afternoon, variations of Fisk's and Vanessa's birth dates, their wedding date, and their ages. None of them worked, but then again, he hadn't really expected them to work. Muttering curses under his breath, he made his way back across the roof and onto the roof next door. He was going to need some climbing gear. Not for the first time, he wished he still had the special billy club Melvin Potter had made for him, but it was lost, buried under the rubble of Midland Circle. He would have to get by without it. And he had to act soon. Fisk's trial would be over in a few days. If Fisk was convicted and taken into custody, he would be out of reach.

_Day 14_

_Matt_

On the roof of Fisk's building, Matt waited for word from Karen. She was in her car, parked down the street, watching from the driver's seat and occasionally getting out of the car to do a reconnaissance on foot. For the past two days, whenever Foggy wasn't around, he and Karen had been engaged in an ongoing discussion – more like an argument – about her role tonight. Karen wanted to go in and confront Fisk with him. When she said this, every fiber of his being screamed, "No! You have to protect her!" He knew better than to say it out loud. He knew, all too well, what she would say. She argued they wouldn't have to lower themselves down the side of the building and go in through a window, because she could disable the keypad lock on the roof door. He reminded her that she had never done that before, and the how-to information she found on the Internet might not work on the lock on Fisk's roof. She pointed out that she would have her gun and would be able to take out Fisk if he couldn't. He countered that two people were more likely to be spotted than one, and if things went sideways, which they often did, her gun could be taken from her and used against them, or she herself could be taken hostage and used as leverage against him. Either way, they could be captured, or worse. In the end, he convinced her, more or less, that he needed her as his lookout and get-away driver. He wasn't above playing the blind card, if it would help keep Karen safe – well, safer. She wasn't happy about it, but she finally agreed.

Earlier that evening, there was an opening at the gallery. It had ended hours ago. Karen had reported the floors occupied by the gallery were dark, except for the dim lights that would burn all night for security. A little after midnight, his phone vibrated. He was expecting it. He'd heard Karen's stealthy footsteps, a few minutes earlier, in the narrow passage between Fisk's building and the one next door. Then her footsteps faded away as she walked back to her car.

He answered it. "Hey."

"Looks like they're all tucked in," Karen said. "All the windows on the top floor are dark, except the third one from the front."

"That'll be Fisk's security guys."

"Right."

"Time to go," he said.

"I know. Go get him. And be careful, _please_," she told him as she ended the call.

Matt returned his phone to his pocket, then secured a rope, long enough to reach the ground, to the metal railing that circled the roof. When he was satisfied it would hold, he hooked it to his climbing harness and vaulted over the railing to stand on the narrow ledge outside it. He paused there for a moment, leaning against the railing. Automatically, he raised his hand to make the sign of the cross. Then he stopped himself. He didn't want or need a blessing. There was no one to bless him, anyway. He took a deep breath, stepped off the ledge, and lowered himself to the window below. There he took out the gadget given to Karen by a grateful former client, recently acquitted of burglary charges. It would fool the security system's sensor into "thinking" the window was still closed when he opened it. Following Karen's instructions, he attached it to the window frame. Then he swiped open the latch and raised the window. No alarm sounded. He slid across the window sill, into the room. He surveyed it. It appeared to be a bedroom, unoccupied at the moment. The room next door, however, was occupied. He counted five men. Fisk's men. At one end of the hall, a man kept watch at the head of the stairs. At the opposite end was a room occupied by two people. Fisk and Vanessa.

He crossed the room and opened the door slowly. The hallway was empty, but almost as soon as he stepped outside the room, a single man emerged from the room next door. He didn't see Matt until it was too late. Matt got him in a chokehold and held on until the man went limp. He dragged the man back into the room he'd just left and let him slide to the floor.

He was about to leave the room again when he heard two more men coming out of the room next door. He slipped back inside and flattened himself against the wall behind the door. After they passed, apparently headed for the stairs, he made his way down the hall toward the room on the far end. He was about halfway there when he heard the two men approaching him from behind.

One of the men demanded, "Who the fuck are you?"

Simultaneously, the other man said, "Son of a bitch, it's him."

They drew their weapons and fired. Matt flipped and twisted, dodging the bullets – all but one of them. The one that didn't miss carved a searing track along his side before it buried itself in the far wall. Then both men charged. The first man to reach him took a swing, but Matt intercepted it and twisted the man's arm behind his back. He pulled the man's arm up, past its breaking point. The man screamed and fell to the floor. The second man circled around behind Matt, who twisted and kicked him in the kneecap but didn't connect solidly. The man stayed on his feet and got Matt in a hold, the same hold that Stick had first used on him, many years ago. Matt twisted and flipped the man over his shoulder, slamming him onto the hardwood floor.

Matt stood in the middle of the hallway, catching his breath, but the respite was brief. The sounds of the struggle had attracted the attention of the two men who remained in the guards' room, along with the guard at the stairwell. And there was someone else. A bellow came from the far end of the hall: _"What is this?" _Fisk. Matt turned to face him. "You!" Fisk exclaimed, his voice betraying his disbelief.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Matt replied scornfully.

Two of the guards moved toward Matt, but Fisk stopped them with a wave of his hand. "I ask again," Fisk said, "what is this? Another absurd attempt to kill me? I was led to believe you are a man of faith. Your God will not be pleased with you."

"What makes you think I give a shit about what God wants?" Matt demanded.

"Hmm," Fisk said, stroking his chin. "And yet you couldn't kill me when you had the chance."

"That was then," Matt pointed out.

"Yes, yes," Fisk said thoughtfully, "so it was. Something changed, then?"

"You know what changed," Matt told him.

"Yes, I suppose I do. I won, didn't I?"

Matt didn't answer him. Instead, he rushed at Fisk, yelling wordlessly. When he was close enough, he began throwing punches. Most of them connected, but they didn't seem to have much effect. Then Fisk counter-attacked. With a roar, he began throwing roundhouse punches of his own, landing a blow that bloodied Matt's nose and another that snapped his head back. Matt tried to regroup, but his responses felt sluggish. He fought on doggedly, focusing his attack on Fisk's head. A fine mist of his and Fisk's blood filled the air between them. Droplets settled on Matt's face and mask. He was doing damage, but not enough. Fisk wasn't giving up, either. After one of Matt's punches had him reeling, he righted himself and charged. Matt began to feel the effects of his four months in captivity. Inexorably, the force of Fisk's blows was pushing him back, down the hall, toward the room where he'd entered the building. He fought back but couldn't regain the ground he'd lost. Grappling, they fought their way into the room. Once inside, Fisk roared and lifted Matt above his head. He slammed Matt onto a table, which splintered under the impact. When Matt struggled to his feet, Fisk picked him up again and threw him out the window.

Glass shattered, the shards stinging Matt's face below his mask. Airborne, he felt his momentum take him past the rope that hung outside the window. It was almost out of reach when he twisted in mid-air and grabbed it with one hand. He swung away from the building, then back, slamming into the wall and almost losing his grip on the rope. He hung there for a minute, catching his breath and cursing silently. This was his one chance to get to Fisk and kill him, and he had failed. Then he descended, reaching the ground only seconds before someone above cut the rope. He sprinted to Karen's car and fell into the passenger seat. "Drive," he gasped.

_Day 16_

**FISK GUILTY**

Special Report to the _Bulletin_

By T. J. Mason

After one day of deliberations in the retrial of Wilson Fisk, a Supreme Court jury has found the crime boss guilty on multiple felony charges, including murder, conspiracy to commit murder, extortion, and bribery. The retrial came after the Court of Appeals, the state's highest court, reversed Fisk's original conviction on the same charges, because of errors in the legal instructions given to the jury in the first trial. When reached for comment, District Attorney Blake Tower said, "The swiftness of the jury's verdict reflects the overwhelming evidence of guilt in this case. Justice has been served." Fisk's attorney, Ben Donovan, vowed his client would appeal, once again, but declined further comment. One of the jurors, speaking on condition of anonymity, said, "It was a no-brainer, really. There was no doubt he was guilty."

Already convicted of multiple felonies, Fisk may face additional charges arising from his alleged involvement in the truck bombings that killed six construction workers in Queens last week, and the kidnapping of attorney Matthew Murdock. Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney of the NYPD's 15th Precinct declined comment on both cases, stating the investigations are ongoing.

Following the verdict, Judge Gerald Brown ordered Fisk to be taken into custody immediately. Citing the seriousness of the offenses and the length of Fisk's potential sentence, Judge Brown denied Donovan's motion to allow him to continue on house arrest until his sentencing.

Fisk will be back in court for sentencing thirty days from today. He is likely to receive the same sentence that was imposed after his first trial, which would send him to prison for the rest of his life. The rule against double jeopardy, enshrined in the United States Constitution, prohibits a longer sentence after a successful appeal. ###

_Day 17_

_Foggy_

Today was Foggy's day to do the lunch run. As usual, he chose subs from Nelson's Meats, only a block and a half from their office. When he returned with the sandwiches, Karen and Matt were already in the conference room. He handed out the sandwiches, then sat down and opened the wrapping on his. Karen and Matt ignored the food in front of them. A sullen silence took the place of their usual lunchtime conversation.

"Why so glum, guys?" he asked.

His answer was the pissed-off expressions on two faces.

"Oh. Right," he said. "It's that 'let's kill Wilson Fisk' thing _you two didn't tell me about._"

"C'mon, Fog – " Matt began.

Foggy didn't let him finish. "Jesus," he said, shaking his head, "you guys never learn." Neither Karen nor Matt had a response to that. "You still haven't figured it out, have you?"

"Figured out what, exactly?" Matt scoffed.

"Killing Fisk would've let him off easy. Instead, he gets to spend the rest of his miserable life in a box, twenty-three hours a day, almost no contact with the outside world." He stopped when he saw the expression on Matt's face, but he wasn't going to back off.

"Maybe," Matt said. "But, you know, Fisk told me once that no prison could hold him. I think he was right about that."

"C'mon, New York State isn't gonna make the same mistake the feds made. No way he's going to gen pop. He's doing his time in the SHU or supermax."

"His lawyers will get him out," Karen argued. "Ben Donovan's as corrupt as Fisk. He'll dirty up some judges, manipulate the system like he always does, and _voilà_!Fisk will be out again."

"But Donovan doesn't work for free," Foggy pointed out. "When Matt gives Mahoney the evidence he's got on Vanessa, she's going down, too. Once she's out of the picture, the whole organization will collapse."

"You're gonna do that, Matt?" Karen asked. "Turn in Vanessa?"

"I am," Matt replied. "Fisk blew up our deal when he kidnapped me. I don't owe her a damn thing."

"And there's something else," Foggy said. "The charges against both of them for what they did to Matt."

"What about them?" Matt asked warily.

"Mahoney's keeping them in his back pocket, for now. The statute of limitations has years to run. If Fisk or Vanessa gets out, he'll file them then."

Matt nodded. "Good."

Foggy took a bite of his sandwich and studied Karen and Matt, sitting stone-faced across the table from him. He hadn't convinced them, not yet, but he was confident they'd eventually come around to his way of thinking. He decided to give it one more try.

"Look, guys," he said, "I know you're angry that you didn't kill Fisk. I get it. You have plenty of reasons to want him dead. I do, too. But, honestly, it's better this way. We get to live our lives while Fisk is stuck in prison, cut off from everyone and everything, including Vanessa. Especially Vanessa. He can think about that, every single day. It's not like he'll have anything else to do. And he will be there for a very long time." He knew they would get the point, Matt especially, but he drove it home anyway. "Karma is a bitch."

_**Chapter 9 End Note:**_ Foggy's plan for Fisk might not work in the real world. In 2019, the New York State legislature failed to pass a bill limiting solitary confinement to no more than 15 days, and enacting other reforms. After the bill failed to pass, the State agreed to make new rules for solitary confinement, but as of the date this story is written, it is not known how effective those rules will be in preventing prolonged solitary confinement.

In New York, the State's highest court is the Court of Appeals. The trial court of general jurisdiction is the Supreme Court.

The gadget Matt uses to fool the window sensor is a made-up thing.

"Judge Gerald Brown" is an homage to the brilliant appellate justice I clerked for, back when I was a newly-minted lawyer. RIP Judge Brown.


End file.
